“Then, Frank, when you go to see him, I should be glad if you would give him that sovereign for me. Poor little brute! I mean the dog, not the boy. It must have been a painful scene. I never shall forget a thing which happened to me on my way home from India. Your saying how pitiful it was to see the dog drowning and being able to do nothing for it, reminded me of it. There was a little cabin boy on board, I should say he was about twelve years old, one of the sharpest and jolliest little fellows I ever saw. He waited on us at mess, and we all quite took to him. Well, sir, we were becalmed down near the Cape. It was very hot weather, and the crew asked permission to bathe. Of course it was given, and in five minutes half the men were in the water, among them Curly Jack, as we used to call the boy, who could swim like a fish. Well, sir, they had been in the water some time, when the mate gave the word for them to come out, and most of them had climbed up the side, but there were still a few in the water, and all were close to the ship’s side except little Jack, who was some distance off, eighty yards or so. Suddenly a man called out, ‘A shark!’ Where he came from or how he got there I don’t know. He had no right to be there at that time of year, and we had not seen one before. However, sure enough, there he was. Of course it was only his back-fin that we saw, cutting along the surface, but there was no mistaking that. He might have been two hundred yards off when we saw him, and he was making directly for the boy. What we all felt I cannot tell you. My heart seemed to stand still, and a deadly feeling of faintness came over me. I would have given worlds to have looked away, but I could not if my life had depended upon it. There was a shout of ‘Swim, Jack, swim for your life!’ and then a great splashing in the water, and I believe that every man who had been bathing jumped in again and swam towards him, splashing and hallooing in hopes of frightening the shark. But he gave no signs of hearing them, and the black fin cut through the water in a straight line towards poor Jack. The boy knew his danger, and I could see that his bright ruddy face was as pale as death. He never said a word, but swam as I never saw a man swim before, and for a moment I hoped he might reach the men who were swimming in a body towards him, before the shark could overtake him. But I only hoped so for a moment, the beast came nearer and nearer, he was close upon him. I would have given worlds to have been able to shut my eyes, but I could not. Suddenly I saw the boy half leap out of the water with a wild cry, which rang in my ears for weeks, and then down he went, and we never saw a sign of him again.”
“How dreadful, uncle! how shocking! Please never tell me that story again,” Alice Heathcote said. “I shall dream of it. Poor little boy!”
“That was a most horrible business,” Frank said. “By Jove! I would not have seen that for any money that could be given me. I do like a row, or danger of any sort if one’s in it oneself, but to stand quiet and look on is more than I could do.”
“Let us go upstairs, if you will not have any more wine; Alice will sing you a song or two before you go.”
And so they went upstairs. Alice Heathcote took her place at the piano, and glanced for an instant towards Frank to see if he were coming to choose a song. Seeing, however, that he was telling his uncle an alligator adventure he had met with up the Nile, she took the first which came to hand, and opened it before her. Prescott, seeing that Frank was making no sign of going towards the piano, took his place by the side of her, and turned over the leaves. She sang one song, and then, getting up, said that she was quite out of voice, and could not sing any more, that story of the sailor boy had, she supposed, upset her. Then, taking her work, she sat down by her uncle and worked quietly, joining very little in the conversation, and only glancing up occasionally at the speakers. Soon after tea the friends took leave, and, lighting their cigars, walked back to the Temple.
CHAPTER V.
A MODEST ANNIVERSARY.
A quarter past eight o’clock on Monday morning; a clear, sharp, frosty day; the shutters are down and the shop open at Stephen Walker’s. From eight to ten is the busiest part of the day with them. Carry, looking very bright and pretty, is counting a number of the morning papers, which have just come in and are lying in a pile, damp and flabby, in front of her. Stephen Walker is standing beside her occupied in folding them, a task which, from long practice, he performs with wonderful quickness and exactitude. On the other side of the counter a small boy, with a good-humoured face and a merry impudent eye, with his hands in thick knitted gloves, and a red comforter round his neck, is waiting, stamping his feet to warm them and swinging his arms for the same purpose.
“Here is your lot,” Carry said, when she had finished; “twelve ‘Times,’ two ‘Posts,’ and three ‘’Tisers.’ Now mind, Tom Holl, no stopping about or playing at marbles.”
“As if it were likely, Miss, that one would stop to play at marbles such a morning as this—oh yes! very.”
“There, take the papers and run off then.”