And they did, too, “Old Jock” rubbing his hands and snorting and sniffing in fine glee as the tea-chests were rattled up out of the junks alongside and lowered into the hold, where they underwent even a greater amount of squeezing and jamming together than our original cargo out, the process of compression being helped on by the aid of the jack-screws and the port watch under Mr Mackay—who now superintended the stowage of the cargo, in place of poor Mr Saunders. No one, apparently, save the faithful Tim Rooney, gave a thought to the latter, now resting in his quiet tomb in Happy Valley!
“Bedad, we miss our ould sickond mate, sorr,” I heard him say to Mr Mackay, who was a little strange to the job, having had nothing to do in the stowing line for some time, his duties as first mate being more connected with the navigation of the ship. “He wor a powerful man to ate, sure; but he knew his way about the howld av a vissil, sorr, that same.”
“That means, I suppose, bosun,” replied Mr Mackay laughing and coughing as the tea-dust caught his breath, “that I don’t—eh?”
“Be jabers, no, sorr,” protested Tim; “I niver maned to say that, sorr, aven if I thought it. But poor ould Misther Saunders samed, sorr, to take koindly to this sort av worruk, betther nor navigatin’; which he weren’t a patch on alongside av you, sorr, as ivery hand aboard knows.”
“Get out with your blarney,” said Mr Mackay good-humouredly, urging the crew on to fresh exertions by way of changing the topic. “If we stop jawing here long we’ll never sail from Shanghai before next year. Put your hearts in it, men, and let us get all stowed and be done with it.”
“Look aloive,” yelled the boatswain, following suit; “an’ hurry up wid thim chistesses—one’d think ye wor goin’ to make the job last a month av Sundays, sore!”
They “hurried up” with a vengeance; so that, before the week was out, the tea was all stowed and the hatches battened down, with the ship quite ready to sail as soon as Captain Gillespie got all his permits and papers from the shore—of which latter, by the way, I may confess, Tom Jerrold and I got tired at last.
I had received no less than three letters from home, all in a batch, when we got to Shanghai, one also coming after we arrived, telling me about father and them all; and it seemed, as I read of their doings at the vicarage and what went on at Westham, as if it had been years since I left England, instead of only six months or so passing by; the change of life and all that had happened making me feel ever so much older.
However, reading these dear home letters made me long all the more to get back and see them again; and, in anticipation of this, you may be certain I did not forget to make a good collection of nice things for mother and my sister Nellie, as well as some “curios” for father, such as he had promised in my name when the letter came which made my mother grieve so, telling that all the arrangements had been completed for my going to sea,—do you recollect?
Yes; and besides the curios I myself bought ashore, I had one given me, at the very last moment before we left the Yang-tse-kiang, by Ching Wang, who, much to the surprise of all, said he wasn’t going back in the Silver Queen—not, at all events, this voyage, he made the captain understand, being desirous of remaining at Shanghai until the next year.