Steering at the time was a mere matter of form, as a dead calm prevailed. Our philosopher therefore amused himself and Polly with commentaries on the ghost-subject which Burr had raised.
Late that night, when the stars were shining in a cloudless sky, and winking at their reflections in the glassy ocean, the ghost appeared to Edwin Jack. It was on this wise:
Jack, being one of the watch on deck, went to the port bulwarks near the foremast shrouds, leant over, and, gazing down into the reflected sky, thought sadly of past, present, and future. Tiring at last of his meditations, he went towards a man who appeared to be skulking under the shadow of the long-boat and remarked that it was a fine night, but the man made no reply.
“A most enjoyable night, shipmate,” he said, going closer.
“I’m glad you think so,” said the ghost, “it’s anything but enjoyable to me. The state of the weather hasn’t much effect, either one way or another, on a fellow who is half-dead with hunger, half-choked with a cold caught among the rats and stores, and half-killed by a tumble down the fore-scuttle, or whatever may be the name of that vile ladder that leads to the regions below.”
“Surely,” exclaimed Jack in surprise, seizing the ghost by the shoulders and looking close into its face, “I have heard your voice before now, and, eh?—no, I don’t know you.”
“Yes, Philosopher Jack, you do know me,” returned the ghost; “I’ve had the honour of playing cricket with you on the green, though you’ve forgotten me, and no wonder, for I’ve suffered much from bad air and sea-sickness of late. My name is Walter, more familiarly Watty Wilkins.”
“Little Wilkins!” exclaimed Jack, in surprise, “well, you are changed; you don’t mean to say that you’ve run away from home?”
“That’s just what I’ve done,” said the poor lad in a tone of despondency; “but you’ve no occasion to shake your head at me so solemnly, for, to all appearance, you have run away too.”
“No, Wilkins, you are wrong, I have walked away, being my own master, and I have done it openly, though I admit somewhat hastily—”
Jack was interrupted at that moment by Ben Trench laying a hand on his shoulder.
“It strikes me,” he said, in some surprise, “that I recognise the voice of a townsman—Mister Jack, if I mistake not?”
“No, sir,” replied the philosopher, “not Mister, only Edwin Jack, seaman aboard the Lively Poll. You are right, however, in styling me townsman. Allow me to introduce you to another townsman, Mr Watty Wilkins, stowaway on board of the same vessel!”
Trench had not, in the darkness, recognised his friend. He now seized him by both shoulders, and peering into his face, said—
“O Watty, Watty, have you really done it? I had thought better of you.”
“I said I would do it, and I’ve done it,” returned the little youth somewhat testily; “and now I want to know what is to be done next.”
“Report yourself and take the consequences,” said Jack, promptly.
This advice being seconded by Ben Trench, Watty Wilkins went aft to the captain, who had just come on deck, touched his cap, and confessed himself.
For some moments the captain spoke not a word, but looked at the young culprit with a portentous frown. Then, uttering something like a deep bass growl, he ordered the lad to follow him into his private cabin. When there, Captain Samson seated himself on a locker, and with a hand on each knee, glared at his prisoner so long and so fiercely from under his shaggy brows, that Watty, in spite of his recklessness, began to feel uneasy.
“So, youngster, you’ve run away?” he said at length, in deep solemnity.
“Yes, sir,” replied Wilkins.
“And you think yourself a fine clever fellow, no doubt?”
“No, sir, I don’t,” said Watty, with much humility.
“I knew your father, boy,” continued the captain, assuming a softer and more serious tone, “and I think he is a good man.”
“He is, sir,” returned the boy promptly.
“Ay, and he is a kind man; he has been kind to you, I think.”
Watty hung his head.
“He has fed you, clothed you, educated you since you was a babby; nursed you, maybe, in sickness, and prayed for you, no doubt that God would make you a good, obedient and loving son.”
The boy’s head drooped still lower.
“And for all this,” continued the captain, “you have repaid him by running away. Now, my lad, as you have made your bed you shall lie on it. I’ll clap your nose to the grindstone, and keep it there. Steward!”
A smart little man answered to the call.
“Take this boy for’ed, and teach him to clean up. Don’t spare him.”
In obedience to this order the steward took little Wilkins forward and introduced him to the cook, who introduced him to the coppers and scrubbing brushes. From that day forward Master Watty became deeply versed in the dirty work and hard work of the ship, so that all the romance of a sea life was driven out of him, and its stern realities were implanted. In less than three weeks there was not a cup, saucer, or plate in the ship that Watty had not washed; not a “brass” that he had not polished and re-polished; not a copper that he had not scraped; not an inch of the deck that he had not swabbed. But it must not be supposed that he groaned under this labour. Although reckless, hasty, and inconsiderate, he was not mean-spirited. Making up his mind to do his best in the circumstances, he went cheerfully to his dirty work, and did it well.
“You see,” said he to Philosopher Jack, as they chanced one dark night to have a few minutes’ talk together near the weather gangway, where Watty paused on his way to the caboose with a soup-tureen, “as the captain says, I’ve made the bed myself, so I must lie on it and I’m resolved to lie straight, and not kick.”
“Right, Watty, right,” said Jack, with a sigh; “we have both been fools, so must grin and bear it.”
Watty greeted this remark, to Jack’s surprise, with a sudden and unexpected yell, as he received a cut from a rope’s-end over the back.
“What, idling, eh?” cried the steward, flourishing the rope’s-end again.
In a burst of rage the poor boy raised the soup-tureen, and would infallibly have shattered it on the man’s head if Jack had not caught his arm.
“Come, Wilkins, mind what you’re about,” he said, pushing him towards the forepart of the ship to prevent a scuffle.
A moment’s reflection sufficed to convince Wilkins of the folly, as well as uselessness, of rebellion. Pocketing his pride and burning with indignation, he walked forward, while the tyrannical steward went grumbling to his own private den.
It chanced that night that the captain, ignorant of what had occurred, sent for the unfortunate stowaway, for the mitigation of whose sorrows his friend Ben Trench had, more than once, pleaded earnestly, but in vain. The captain invariably replied that Watty had acted ungratefully and rebelliously to a kind father, and it was his duty to let him bear the full punishment of his conduct.
Watty was still smarting from the rope’s-end when he entered the cabin.
“Youngster,” said the captain, sternly, “I sent for you to tell you of a fact that came to my knowledge just before we left port. Your father told me that, being unwilling to disappoint you in your desires, he had managed to get a situation of some sort for you on board a well-known line of ocean steamers, and he only waited to get the thing fairly settled before letting you know about it. There, you