On another occasion Bob overheard Lockley again talking about Eve. “I’m sorry for the poor thing,” he said to Peter Jay, as they paced the deck together; “she’s got such a wretched home, an’ her mother’s such a drunken bru—”
Lockley checked himself, and did not finish the sentence.
“The doctor says,” he resumed, “that if Eve had only a bath-chair or suthin’ o’ that sort, to get wheeled about in the fresh air, she’d very likely get better as she growed older—specially if she had good victuals. You see, small as she is, and young as she looks, she’s over fifteen. But even if she had the chair, poor thing! who would wheel it for her? It would be no use unless it was done regular, an’ her mother can’t do it—or won’t.”
From that hour Bob Lumpy became a miser. He had been a smoker like the rest of the crew, but he gave up “baccy.” He used to take an occasional glass of beer or spirits when on shore or on board the copers, but he became a total abstainer, much to his own benefit in every way, and as a result he became rich—in an extremely small way.
There was a very small, thin, and dirty, but lively and intelligent boy in Yarmouth, who loved Bob Lumsden better, if possible, than himself. His name was Pat Stiver. The affection was mutual. Bob took this boy into his confidence.
One day, a considerable time after Bob’s discovery of Eve, Pat, having nothing to do, sauntered to the end of Gorleston Pier, and there to his inexpressible joy, met his friend. Before he had recovered sufficiently from surprise to utter a word, Bob seized him by the arms, lifted him up, and shook him.
“Take care, Lumpy,” cried the boy, “I’m wery tender, like an over-young chicken. You’d better set me down before I comes in pieces.”
“Why, Stiver, you’re the very man I was thinkin’ of,” said Lumpy, setting the boy on the edge of the pier, and sitting down beside him.
Stiver looked proud, and felt six inches taller.
“Listen,” said Bob, with an earnest look that was apt to captivate his friends; “I want help. Will you do somethin’ for me?”