During these Sabbath celebrations, the man (having no children of his own body to maltreat) often diverted himself by belabouring his ragged little nephew; who, more or less battered, wriggled dexterously from his clutch, and, seeking his familiar haunt, the wharf, there wore out the weary day. Jack's other "folk" was the wife of the aforesaid uncle; a poor, cowed creature, with pinched, wan face and pale, carroty hair. When the boy, upon a Sunday, did not come readily to hand, the aunt was beaten in his stead. She did not run away, this poor, spiritless scapegoat, but wearily mounting a ladder-like staircase, took sanctuary in the loft. Later, when a drunken slumber enwrapped her lord, she reappeared upon the scene, with set lips, and face so white and ghastly, that little Jack, remembering vaguely that other still, white face, crept uneasily out into the sunlight, and tried to forget it.
One day, when the shipwright had beaten his wife terribly, and there was blood upon her clean Sunday gown, she did not, as usual, betake herself to that "city of refuge," the loft; but, groaning faintly, fell prone upon the floor. Jack's uncle then making a dive at him, the child scampered off to the wharf as fast as his trembling little legs would carry him. When he had skipped a good many stones into the water, had watched ever so many clouds and vessels sail by, and had seen the crimson water swallow the bloated fiery sun, little Jack felt hungry, and thought it high time to be getting home to his folks. Forlorn little waif! His folks, unsatisfactory as they were, were no longer available.
He found the shipwright's dwelling thronged with excited men and women. Upon the bed lay a still, white heap. Fancying that it might be the pinch-faced aunt, who had so long partially fed and clothed him, the child pushed forward, and, creeping softly to the bed, touched, with his dirty little hand, that still, white face.
Ugh! His folks were never as cold as that!
Repelled by this icy horror, the child stole quietly away, and, crouching timidly in a far corner of the thronged apartment, watched it all.
There was a deal of commotion in Jack's folks' house that Sunday evening; and Jack's uncle, staring vacantly at a gaping throng of men, boys, and frowsy-headed women, and sustained by two doughty dignitaries of the law, was finally conveyed absolutely beyond the line of his childish vision. After this, another gentleman, in bright buttons, summarily cleared the house, and locked the door, with the child on the wrong side of it; and, unheeded, hungry, shelterless, and forlorn, the lad crept silently away. And this is all that Jack remembers of his folks. The next tableau in his memory is that of a ship's cabin, and a fat steward in a white apron, who, as he wells remembers, went busily up and down the companionway, fetching steaming viands, and carrying away empty plates and soiled glasses, which had often, at bottom, a modicum of something strong and nice. He liked it—this fine, fiery stuff!—and when whole spoonfuls had been left in the glasses, and he had been let to drain them all, he felt as cheery as could be; and, at bedtime, went off to his small bunk as happy as a king. But when at dinner-time the steward, in his hurry-skurry, kicked him out of the way, and called him "a d—d little son of a gun, whom (like a soft-hearted lubber) he had smuggled into the Argo to save from the poorhouse," Jack fled dejectedly to his bunk to cry alone.
Yes, he remembered well, how a long time ago—very long indeed it seemed in Jack's childish measurement of time—that cruel hunger had gnawed at his poor, depleted little stomach, when his folks' door was fast locked, and he prowling miserably about the wharf; and how the good steward had then found and fed him. From that day, he had clung to his deliverer—his providence—like a grateful spaniel, and, still at his heels, here he was in the great Argo, sailing on and on, no doubt, to the very end of the world.
Yes, he knew all that; and he meant to be thankful and good; but was he, for certain true, "a son of a gun?" His father, as before stated, being but an inference, Jack concluded, upon the whole, that he might be.
By and by, when the old steward (whose bite was in no wise as formidable as his bark) had tided over his "hurry-skurry," and, having given him his dinner, tossed him playfully to the ceiling, like a plump little ball, as he was, when he set him to play all manner of monkey tricks for his own and the crew's diversion, calling him "a droll shaver," instead of that other objectionable name, he forgot, for the time, his childish grievances, and was comparatively content.