The sloop-of-war and the Revenue cutter, its companion, had been lying at anchor some hundred yards from the end of the pier, and every now and then the sailor glanced at the trim vessels with their white sails and the sloop’s carefully-squared yards—all “ataunto,” as he termed it—and more than one sigh escaped his lips as he thought that never again would he tread the white deck that he helped to holy-stone, let alone show that he was one of the smartest of the crew to go up aloft.
And as he glanced at the vessels from time to time, he, to use his words, “put that and that together,” and noticed that, contrary to custom, there was not a single hearty-looking young fisherman lounging upon the rail that overhung the head of the harbour.
“Smells a rat,” muttered the old sailor. “Like as not they’ve dropped anchor here to see if there are any likely-looking lads waiting to be picked up after dark. Why, there’s a good dozen that would be worth anything to a skipper, and I could put the press-gang on to their trail as easy as could be; but they’re neighbours, and I can’t do them such a dirty turn. Now, if they’d on’y take a dozen of these young beauties it would be a blessing to the place; but, no, the skipper wouldn’t have them at a gift. But that’s what they’re after. Hullo, here comes a boat!”
“Oh!” he laughed, as he saw the sloop’s cutter lowered down with its crew and a couple of officers in the stern-sheets. “The old game. Coming ashore for fresh meat and vegetables. I know that little game.”
Bodger went on netting away, watching the boat out of the corner of one eye as it was rowed smartly up to the harbour steps, where the oars were turned up; and leaving the youth with him in charge of the boat’s crew, the officer sprang out with one of the men and hurried up the steps, gave a supercilious glance at the crippled sailor, who touched his hat, and then went along towards the town.
“Yes, that’s it,” said the sailor to himself. “Having a look round. There’ll be a gang landed to-night as sure as my name’s Bodger.”
The thinker made a few more meshes and then had a glance down on the boat and her crew, his eyes dwelling longest upon the young officer, who had taken out a small glass, through which he began to examine the town.
“Middy,” said Bodger. “Smart-looking lad too. What’s their game now?” he continued, as the boys drew closer together. “They’ll be up to some game or another directly. Shying old fish at that youngster’s uniform, or some game or another. Strikes me that if they do they’ll find that they’ve caught a tartar. Just what they’d like to do—shy half a dozen old bakes’ tails at his blue and white jacket. I might say a word to him and save it, but if I did I should be saving them young monkeys too, and—look at that now!—if that arn’t Master Aleck’s boat coming round the pynte! They sees it too—bless ’em! Now they’ll be arter him, safe. That’ll save the middy, but it won’t save Master Aleck. Strikes me I’d better put my netting away and clear the decks for action.”
Tom Bodger’s clearing for action consisted in turning himself aside so that he could drag a neatly-folded duck bag off the fender, and stuffing his partly-made net and twine, with stirrup, mesh, and needle, inside before tying up the neck with a piece of yarn.
But his eyes were busy the while, and he watched all that went on, Aleck’s boat running in fast, the boys whispering together, their leader sending off a couple towards the town end of the pier, and eliciting the mental remark from the sailor: