So a boat was lowered, and amongst its crew was Peter Barlow, who, from the first, had been told off to attend the injured man, and who assisted to carry him up the gangway-ladder of the R.M.S. Barcelona.
‘Umph, umph,’ said the surgeon; ‘he’ll have to stay here if he wants to save his leg.’ Then to Peter, ‘Off you go back, my lad, and get his kit and what money’s coming to him. It’ll be many a long day before he sails the sea again.’
But Peter, whose eyes had been roving over the [30] ]surrounding crowd, suddenly, to the medico’s astonishment, shouting,—‘The boss, by G—d!’ rushed through the people, and, regardless of appearances, seized a gentleman’s hand and shook it frantically, exclaiming,—
‘Oh, Mr Forrest, sir, don’t you know me? I’m Peter, sir—Peter Barlow, from the ole station. I’ve been shanghaied an’ locussed away to sea, an’ I wants to git back home again!’
Mr Forrest was more astonished than Peter at such a meeting. Matters, however, were soon arranged.
Peter went on to Colombo in the Barcelona, and, in a fortnight, joining another boat, duly arrived at Wicklow Downs, whence he has never since stirred.
And, if the reader chance one day to journey thither, he may hear at first hand this story, embellished with breezy Bush idioms and phrases that render it infinitely more graphic and stirring a version, but which, somehow, do not read well in type.
[31]
]‘EX SARDANAPALUS.’
‘Make it eight bells! Go below, the starboard watch!’
A few minutes later, and eight men sat on eight sea-chests, looking hungrily across at one another. Between them lay an empty meat-kid.[Footnote 1] ] In a box alongside were some biscuits, black and honeycombed with weevil-holes. Dinner was over in the Sardanapalus’ fo’c’stle, but still her starboard watch glared hungrily at each other.