One of the foremen at the Mill kept an “open house” for ’prentice-boys, and Donald often went up with other lads and played the old piano. It seemed strange to him to be fingering the keys again, and it took some time to get his stiffened fingers limbered up. As a piano player, McKenzie was very much in demand, and “sing-songs” at the genial Mr. Harrigan’s bungalow became almost nightly events. Another artistic accomplishment was renewed when he made sketches of Vancouver scenery and mailed them to his mother. He did not feel like sketching while at sea, but during the placid hours of port life, the mood returned, and with pencil and crayons, he limned the sights around while Thompson and Jenkins admiringly looked on. “If I could draw like that, nipper,” remarked the former, “I’d be cussed if I’d ever go to sea. I’d sooner squat on Jamaica Bridge and make chalk pictures of herrings, and mountains, and fruit, on the paving-stones for pennies. Hanged if I wouldn’t!”
A month passed very pleasantly, when he got a message from Captain Nickerson, and in company with the Nova Scotian he dropped into the Chinese cafe.
“Naow, son,” said Nickerson, when they were seated with coffee before them, “I’m all fixed up. I’m agoin’ to take a ninety-five ton sealing schooner called the Helen Starbuck, around to Halifax soon’s I git a crew of four or five able hands. Naow, tell me, Donny-boy, d’ye s’pose young Thompson ’ud like to go along with me? And young Jenkins? I’d gladly give them a lift out o’ that big barge ef they’d care to ship. D’ye think they would?” Donald felt pretty sure that both would go if they got the chance.
“Good!” replied the other. “We’ll sound ’em later to-night. I s’pose you can get ’em some time this evening? Right! Naow, I’ve thought up a dodge for your uncle’s benefit. You go on that lumber wharf to-morrow night and pretend you’re goin’ fishin’. Lay your brass-bound coat on the wharf, an’ git a big rock, or anything that’ll sink, and you jest give a yell for help an’ heave it in. Chuck yer cap in afterwards, an’ sling your hook from th’ wharf as hard as you can pelt. I’ll wait for you at the head of the dock in a quiet spot an’ we’ll slip away. As for your clothes, Thompson kin bring them away with him ef he comes with us.”
Donald opened his eyes in wonder. “What is the object of pretending I’m drowned off the wharf?”
The other smiled knowingly. “Two objects! First—it will prevent old Muirhead from notifying the police that you have deserted. Second—he’ll inform your uncle of your death, and then you’ll see what the game is. Write and tell your mother what you are doing and she can keep an eye on things over there. Naow, skip along an’ find Thompson an’ Jenkins!”
Two days later, Nickerson and the three apprentices sailed on the night boat for Victoria. All were dressed in cheap store clothes and looked like laborers or fishermen, and in Thompson’s sea-chest and dunnage bag reposed the best parts of Jenkins’ and McKenzie’s kit. Thompson had left the ship openly and with a clear discharge from the captain, on the plea that he was going to join a steamer in Victoria. Jenkins had skipped out “between two days,” and his name and description was on the police blotter of Vancouver as a runaway apprentice, who, when apprehended, was to be kept in confinement until such time as the barque was ready for sea. McKenzie, alas! had fallen off the wharf while fishing and was drowned, and Captain Muirhead tersely reported the matter to D. McKenzie, Esq., Bothwell St., Glasgow, without any elaborate explanations. Mr. McKenzie, no doubt, would consider that the job was satisfactorily accomplished.
Next morning early, they stepped off the steamer at Victoria and hired a boatman to put them aboard of a trim, black, copper-bottomed, two topmast schooner lying in company with a small fleet in the Inner Harbor. Nickerson said that they were all ready to sail, and the quartette tumbled aboard the little vessel.
“Naow, boys,” said the Nova Scotian, “Thompson’ll live aft with me and act as mate. Donald an’ Jenkins here’ll live for’ard in the fo’c’sle. It’s nice an’ comfortable compared with the Kelvinhaugh. There’s two other hands an’ the cook aboard an’ daown havin’ breakfast, I cal’late, so we ain’t noways short-handed. We’ll hev a bite to eat, an’ then we’ll git under way!”
Donald and Jenkins clambered down the fo’c’sle ladder and found three men eating at the triangular table fixed between the fore-mast and the pawl-post. They looked up when the boys jumped down, and one of them rose to his feet with a shout.