Childers gave a smile of pleasure as his schoolfellows jumped on board. He had, glancing over his shoulder, seen them drift out of sight round the point, and had felt certain that they had reached shore. It was, however, a great pleasure to be assured of the fact.
“You have made quite a stir upon the beach, young gentlemen,” the coxswain of the boat said. “When they two came running up without their shoes or coats and said there were three of you cut off in the bay under the Foreland, there didn’t seem much chance for you. It didn’t take us two minutes to launch the boat, for there were a score of hands helping to run her down; and my mates bent to it well, I can tell you, though we didn’t think it would be of any use. We were glad when we made you two out on this side of the point. Look, there’s half Deal and Walmer coming along the shore.”
It was as the boatman said. Numbers of persons were streaming along the beach, and loud were the cheers which rose as the coxswain stood up and shouted in a stentorian voice, “All saved!”
Frank put on his things as they approached Walmer. His shoes were lost, as were those of Ruthven, and he had difficulty in getting his arms into his wet and shrunken jacket. Quite a crowd were gathered near the castle as the boat rowed to shore, and a hearty cheer arose as it was run up on the shingle and the boys were helped out. Frank and Ruthven, indeed, required no assistance. They were in no way the worse for the adventure, but Childers was so weak that he was unable to stand. He was carried up and laid on a fly, the others sitting opposite, the driver having first taken the precaution of removing the cushions.
There were among the crowd most of the boys from Dr. Parker’s. Goodall and Jackson had arrived nearly an hour and a half before, and the news had spread like wildfire. Bats and balls had been thrown down and every one had hurried to the beach. Goodall and his companion had already related the circumstance of their being cut off by the water and taken round the point by Frank; and as Ruthven on jumping out had explained to his comrades who flocked round to shake his hand, “I owe my life to Hargate,” the enthusiasm reached boiling point, and Frank had difficulty in taking his place in the fly, so anxious were all to shake his hand and pat him on the shoulder. Had it not been for his anxiety to get home as soon as possible, and his urgent entreaties, they would have carried him on their shoulders in triumph through the town. They drove first to the school, where Childers was at once carried up to a bed, which had been prepared with warm blankets in readiness; Ruthven needed only to change his clothes.
The moment they had left the fly Frank drove straight home, and was delighted at finding, from his mother’s exclamation of surprise as he alighted from the cab, that she had not been suffering any anxiety, no one, in the general excitement, having thought of taking the news to her. In answer to her anxious inquiries he made light of the affair, saying only that they had stupidly allowed themselves to be cut off by the sea and had got a ducking. It was not, indeed, till the next morning, when the other four boys came around to tell Mrs. Hargate that they were indebted to Frank for their lives, that she had any notion that he had been in danger.
Frank was quite oppressed by what he called the fuss which was made over the affair. A thrilling description of it appeared in the local papers. A subscription was got up in the school, and a gold watch with an inscription was presented to him; and he received letters of heart felt thanks from the parents of his four schoolfellows, for Childers maintained that it was entirely to Frank’s coolness and thoughtfulness that his preservation was also due.
On the following Wednesday the school broke up. Frank had several invitations from the boys to spend his holidays with them; but he knew how lonely his mother would feel in his absence, and he declined all the invitations. Mrs. Hargate was far from strong, and had had several fits of fainting. These, however, had taken place at times when Frank was at school, and she had strictly charged her little servant to say nothing about it.
One day on returning from a long walk he saw the doctor’s carriage standing at the door. Just as he arrived the door opened and the doctor came out. Upon seeing Frank he turned.
“Come in here, my boy,” he said.
Frank followed him, and seeing that the blinds were down, went to draw them up. The doctor laid his hand on his arm.
“Never mind that,” he said gently.
“My boy,” he said, “do you know that your mother has been for some time ailing?”
“No, indeed,” Frank said with a gasp of pain and surprise.
“It is so, my boy. I have been attending her for some time. She has been suffering from fainting fits brought on by weakness of the heart’s action. Two hours since I was sent for and found her unconscious. My poor boy, you must compose yourself. God is good and merciful, though his decrees are hard to bear. Your mother passed away quietly half an hour since, without recovering consciousness.”
Frank gave a short cry, and then sat stunned by the suddenness of the blow. The doctor drew out a small case from his pocket and poured a few drops from the phial into a glass, added some water, and held it to Frank’s lips.
“Drink this, my boy,” he said.
Frank turned his head from the offered glass. He could not speak.
“Drink this, my boy,” the doctor said again; “it will do you good. Try and be strong for the sake of your little sister, who has only you in the world now.”
The thought of Lucy touched the right chord in the boy’s heart, and he burst into a passionate fit of crying. The doctor allowed his tears to flow unchecked.
“You will be better now,” he said presently. “Now drink this, then lie down on the sofa. We must not be having you ill, you know.”
Frank gulped down the contents of the glass, and, passive as a child, allowed the doctor to place him upon the sofa.
“God help and strengthen you, my poor boy,” he said; “ask help from Him.”
For an hour Frank lay sobbing on the sofa, and then, remembering the doctor’s last words, he knelt beside it and prayed for strength.
A week had passed. The blinds were up again. Mrs. Hargate had been laid in her last home, and Frank was sitting alone again in the little parlor thinking over what had best be done. The outlook was a dark one, enough to shake the courage of one much older than Frank. His mother’s pension, he knew, died with her. He had, on the doctor’s advice, written to the War Office on the day following his mother’s death, to inform the authorities of the circumstances, and to ask if any pension could be granted to his sister. The reply had arrived that morning and had relieved him of the greatest of his cares. It stated that as he was now just fifteen years old he was not eligible for a pension, but that twenty-five pounds a year would be paid to his sister until she married or attained the age of twenty-one.
He had spoken to the doctor that morning, and the latter said that he knew a lady who kept a small school, and who would, he doubted not, be willing to receive Lucy and to board and clothe her for that sum. She was a very kind and motherly person, and he was sure that Lucy would be most kindly treated and cared for by her. It was then of his own future only that Frank had to think. There were but a few pounds in the house, but the letter from the War Office inclosed a check for twenty pounds, as his mother’s quarterly pension was just due. The furniture of the little house would fetch but a small sum, not more, Frank thought, than thirty or forty pounds. There were a few debts to pay, and after all was settled up there would remain about fifty pounds. Of this he determined to place half in the doctor’s hands for the use of Lucy.
“She will want,” he said to himself, “a little pocket money. It is hard on a girl having no money to spend of her own. Then, as she gets on, she may need lessons in something or other. Besides, half the money rightly belongs to her, The question is, What am I to do?”
CHAPTER V: ALONE IN THE WORLD
“What am I to do?”
A difficult question indeed, for a boy of fifteen, with but twenty-five pounds, and without a friend in the world. Was he,