“Now, son,” he said kindly, “I’ve taken a shine to you and I know you’ve had a rough deal, an’ that you’re a poor little devil of an orphan with nobody to look after you. I knew your daddy, though I never told you. We were shipmates one time and he did me a good turn ... never mind what. I’ve been a wild one in my day and should be further ahead than what I am. But I’m going to settle daown. I’m agoin’ back home and I’ll take you along if you care to come. You’d better get clear of your uncle and your uncle’s ships, and we’ll frame up a dodge on him if you’re game. Will you skip naow after what I have told ye?”
“Yes, I will!” replied Donald emphatically. “I don’t want to stay. I’ll run away to-night and go anywhere and do anything to get away from that ship.”
“Don’t hurry,” said the Nova Scotian. “Wait until I’m ready and I’ll tell you what to do. I have been around with some friends of mine who own sealing schooners. One of them wants me to take a contract to deliver a schooner in Halifax—taking her ’round the Horn from Victoria. This sealing game is getting played out here naow, and there’s a lot of trouble on between the Canadian and American Governments about saving the Behring Sea seals and putting a stop to the fishery altogether. Ef I agree to take this vessel around, I’ll take you along with me and I’ll see that you are paid seaman’s wages. You won’t have a hard time, and you’ll find one of these sealers make a fine able craft for rough voyaging. They’ll make better shape of a Horn passage than that ugly barge we jest came around in, and the trip’ll do ye good. When we git ’round to Halifax then we’ll discuss the future. Ye kin either go home or come into the Bank fishing game with me. We’ll see. Naow, Donald, here’s a couple o’ dollars. Skip off an’ see the sights. Don’t say anything to the other lads and stand-by for a hail from me later.” “What about the captain?” asked Donald anxiously, “will he do something to me now?”
“He won’t harm you,” replied the other smiling. “He’s pickled that liver of his until it’s like a sponge. He may never take the Kelvinhaugh to sea again.” He rose, paid the bill, and left Donald on the street, much astonished, perplexed, and speculating on the tale he had listened to.
And Judson Nickerson? he thought. Could he trust him? The young Nova Scotian was a peculiar fellow. A hard master—a driver—and quick with his feet and hands—a regular sailor banger! Donald thought of the way in which Nickerson kept him skipping around on the Kelvinhaugh; his bitter, oath-besprinkled commands, and his callous remarks in lieu of praise for strenuous accomplishments. And yet Nickerson had been his best friend. He had saved his life when he fell from the jigger-gaff; saved him from Hinkel’s studied hazing, and had secured him warm clothes when he was perishing with cold off the Horn. He had done him many kindnesses, but he had awed Donald with his shipboard severity. He called to mind the time he had sent him aloft to reeve a signal halliard through the main-truck ... but that was to test him. It could not be called bullying. Nickerson was a hard officer, but he had never hit any of the boys, though he horsed them around. Yes! he felt he could trust Nickerson. He was a capable, aggressive sort of fellow, but under his stern manner he had a kind heart, and his piercing grey eyes looked honest, and he was undoubtedly gentle at times. And he had known his father! Was he doing these favors for Donald as a return for something his father had done for him?
And his Uncle David! Why should he want to get rid of him? What had he done, or in what manner did he stand in the way of his uncle’s unknown objective? He racked his brain to solve this problem, but reached no satisfactory conclusion. He believed Nickerson’s story, and a review of his voyage on the Kelvinhaugh recalled many incidents in which his life hung by a thread. If it had not been for Nickerson he would never have seen the land again ... no doubt of that. He had been sent to sea to be made away with, and he shivered at the thought of his many narrow escapes from death.
The Kelvinhaugh had discharged her cargo of rails and hauled over to Hastings Mills to load lumber for Australia. Moore had received his remittance and had gone, and nobody mourned him. He came aboard and packed his dunnage with Thompson, Jenkins and McKenzie looking on. “Why don’t you give that gear to some of us?” Thompson had remarked, but Moore replied, “I want to take it home with me.”
“Aye,” sneered the other, “you’ll go home in your brass-bound rags and cut a dash blowing about your passage around Cape Stiff. Believe me, you cub, you’ve nothing to blow about! You want to tell your girl what a ruddy sojer you were, and tell her that I was going to boot you off a yard one time for having no guts. Aye! you ain’t worth carrying—even as ballast—and the sooner you get to your pa’s beer factory the better for you. You can help him stick the labels on the bottles—that’s your trick, young fellow-my-lad!” And with the other three lads jeering at him over the rail, he slinked off in a hack to catch the C.P.R. transcontinental train for Montreal.
Thompson was looking for a passage to England in a Blue Funnel liner, and planned to ship in one ’fore-the-mast. Jenkins did not know what to do. He didn’t want to sail again in the barque, but he thought he would hang on to her for board and lodging and skip out just before she sailed. Donald was non-committal and said nothing about his future intentions.
They had some pleasant times in Vancouver, and in company with four other apprentices from an English ship, also loading at the Mills, they toured the beauty spots of the vicinity. Sundays, they spent at English Bay—bathing and picnicing, or drove to New Westminster and Steveston on the Fraser River and looked over the numerous salmon canneries established there. One time they made up an excursion to Capilano Canyon; other events were boat sails up to Port Moody or up the North Arm of Burrard Inlet. The towering mountains had a strange fascination for Donald, and he loved to watch their lofty crests reflect the colors of the westering sun or enhalo themselves with wispy vapors when the clouds hung low. He set out one day to scale the “Sleeping Lions” which guard Vancouver’s bay, but a few yards plunging among the muskeg, rocks, and huge fallen trunks of trees, made him give up the attempt.