“I am more grateful to you, old friend, than I can say,” said Philip, “and, if I can get these bracelets off, I shall be able to drink, or to do anything else with greater ease. However, I’ll drink to the toast with all my heart.” He raised the glass in both his manacled hands, with a laugh.
“We’ll ’ave them little ornyments orf in ’arf a jiffy,” said the Captain, diving into the locker again. “We guessed you might ’ave summink of that sort, as a little delicate attention from your friends—so we got pervided accordin’. ’Ere’s a file from our ’andy-man’s tool-bag; an’ I reckon I’d best ’ave a go at the rivets.”
The Captain set to work at once; nor would he utter a word, in reply to any questions, until the handcuffs were removed. It took some considerable time, and while the filing went on, Philip noticed that the melancholy man kept his eyes fixed upon the floor—only occasionally indulging in that extraordinary cough, with which he had been afflicted at the Chater Arms.
At last, the handcuffs being safely put out of sight, the Captain, turning to the melancholy man, said abruptly—“Now then, Skerritt, my boy—let’s know ’ow this ’ere affair was brought orf for the infermation of Mr. Chater. This, Phil,” he added, “is a man as is to be trusted with anythink—from untold gold to w’iskey—a man as formerly sailed under me, an’ ’as joined me, as a sort of depitty clown. I’ll own,” added the Captain, in a hoarse whisper behind his hand to Philip—“I’ll own as ’e don’t look it—but ’e’s got a way with ’im, w’en ’e’s painted up, as would fairly astonish yer.”
Mr. Skerritt immediately plunged into an account of his doings, and of how he contrived to meet Philip; explaining it all with many of those curious sounds before referred to, and with much rolling of one melancholy eye. He had a curious funereal voice, as though it had sunk below the usual level at some period, of great depression, and had never been got up again.
“The Cap’n ’avin’ passed the word as there were a shipmate in distress, I started out fer ter sight ’im; got wind that ’e might be expected in Bamberton—wind an’ tide bein’, so ter speak, favourable. The Cap’n ’ere come as far as the cross-roads wi’ me an’ we arranged signals. Then I ’eard a fair rumpus in the village, an’ got up jus’ in time to see the perliceman a bein’ pounded in the ribs by a ole gent in his stockin’ feet, an’ Mr. Chater a layin’ about proper among the lubbers as was a tryin’ to ’old ’im. I shoves meself for’ard, an’ manages ter git with ’im an’ the perliceman, w’en they starts fer Chelmsford. The rest ’e knows.” Here Mr. Skerritt laughed again, in that peculiar fashion of his, and looked more melancholy than ever.
“But, Captain,” urged Philip—“you don’t seem to realise what a risk you run, in thus defying the Law, and befriending a man who is an outlaw. My debt to you is greater than I can pay; and I cannot permit you to run any further danger on my account.”
“’Old ’ard—’old ’ard, mess-mate,” cried the Captain. “’Osses or no ’osses—circuses or no circuses—I stan’ by a friend. I confess I don’t understan’ the business—an’ I don’t like you a runnin’ under false colours; but you’ve give me yer word as ’ow you’re innocent; an’ I’ll continue for to rescue yer, once a week, if necessary—till further orders. I don’t take no notice of objections or risks; rescue yer I will, agin yer will or with it. An’ now, Phil, as we starts early to-morrer mornin’, I’d advise yer to turn in, an’ git wot sleep yer can. An’ in order that yer may sleep with a easy mind, there’s some one as I’d like yer ter see, afore I battens yer down for the night.”
So saying, the worthy Captain opened the door cautiously, and crept down the steps. In a few moments, the door was opened again, by another hand; and a light figure darted in, and fell at Philip’s feet. It was Clara Siggs.
He was so astonished and so delighted at this unexpected meeting, that, as he raised her from the floor, and looked into her eyes, he bent his head, and kissed her, quite on an impulse.