Chapter Nine.
Young Decision.
One week later, and three men might be seen walking briskly along a by-street in Liverpool towards the docks. These were Hubert Oliphant, Frank Oldfield, and Captain Merryweather, commander of the barque Sabrina, bound for South Australia. The vessel was to sail next day, and the young men were going with the captain to make some final arrangements about their cabins. Hubert looked bright and happy, poor Frank subdued and sad. The captain was a thorough and hearty-looking sailor, brown as a coffee-berry from exposure to weather; with abundance of bushy beard and whiskers; broad-shouldered, tall, and upright. It was now the middle of October, just three days after the flight of Samuel Johnson from Langhurst, as recorded in the opening of our story. As the captain and his two companions turned the corner of the street they came upon a group which arrested their attention at once.
Standing not far from the door of a public-house was a lad of about fourteen years of age. He looked worn and hungry, yet he had not at all the appearance of a beggar. He was evidently strange to the place, and looked about him with an air of perplexity, which made it clear that he was in the midst of unfamiliar and uncongenial scenes. Three or four sailors were looking hard at him, as they lounged about the public-house door, and were making their comments to one another.
“A queer-looking craft,” said one. “Never sailed in these waters afore, I reckon.”
“Don’t look sea-worthy,” said another.
“Started a timber or two, I calculate,” remarked a third.
“Halloa! messmate,” shouted another, whose good-humoured face was unhappily flushed by drink, “don’t lie-to there in that fashion, but make sail, and come to an anchor on this bench.”
The lad did not answer, but stood gazing at the sailors in a state of utter bewilderment.
“Have you carried away your jawing-tackle, my hearty?” asked the man who had last addressed him.