He said that not only was that vessel in port at that time, but that the same men were still aboard; that the captain—Dixon by name—was still in command, and that the whale which had been seized from the crew of the Red Eric had been sold along with the rest of the cargo. He related; moreover, how that he and his comrades had been very ill-treated by Captain Dixon during the voyage, and that he (Captain D) was, in the opinion of himself and his shipmates, the greatest blackguard afloat, and had made them so miserable by his brutality and tyranny, that they all hoped they might never meet with his like again—not to mention the hopes and wishes of a very unfeeling nature which they one and all expressed in regard to that captain’s future career. Besides all this, he stated that he (Dick Jones) had recognised Captain Dunning when he landed that morning, and had followed him to the cottage with the yellow face and the green door; after which he had taken a turn of half-an-hour or so up and down the street to think what he ought to do, and had at last resolved to tell all that he knew, and offer to stand witness against his captain, which he was then and there prepared to do, at that time or at any future period, wherever he (Captain Dunning) liked, and whenever he pleased, and that there was an end of the whole matter, and that was a fact.
Having unburdened his mind, and eaten all the ham, and eggs, and toast, and drunk all the coffee, and asked for more and got it, Dick Jones proceeded to make himself supremely happy by filling his pipe and lighting it.
“I’ll take him to law,” said Captain Dunning firmly, smiting the table with his fist.
“I know’d a feller,” said Jones, “wot always said, w’en he heard a feller say that, ‘You’ll come for to wish that ye hadn’t;’ but I think ye’re right, cap’en; for it’s a clear case, clear as daylight; an’ we’ll all swear to a’most anything as’ll go fur to prove it.”
“But are you sure your messmates are as willing as you are to witness against the captain?”
“Sure? In coorse I is—sartin sure. Didn’t he lamp two on ’em with a rope’s-end once till they wos fit to bust, and all for nothin’ but skylarkin’? They’ll all go in the same boat with me, ’cept perhaps the cook, who is named Baldwin. He’s a cross-grained critter, an’ll stan’ by the cap’en through thick an thin, an’ so will the carpenter—Box they call him—he’s dead agin us; but that’s all.”
“Then I’ll do it at once,” cried Captain Dunning, rising and putting on his hat firmly, as a man does when he has made a great resolve, which he more than half suspects will get him into a world of difficulties and trouble.
“I s’pose I may set here till ye come back?” inquired Dick Jones, who now wore a dim mysterious aspect, in consequence of the cloud of smoke in which he had enveloped himself.
“You may sit there till they turn you out; but come and take breakfast with me at the same hour to-morrow, will ye?”
“Won’t I?”
“Then good-day.”
So saying, the captain left the coffee-house, and hurried to his sisters’ cottage, where he rightly conjectured he should find Glynn Proctor. Without telling his sisters the result of the interview with the “rude seaman,” he took Glynn’s arm and sallied forth in search of Tim Rokens and Mr Millons, both of whom they discovered enjoying their pipes, after a hearty breakfast, in a small, unpretending, but excellent and comfortable “sailors’ home,” in the dirty little street before referred to.
The greater part of the crew of the late Red Eric (now “sticks and stivers”) were found in the same place, engaged in much the same occupation, and to these, in solemn conclave assembled, Captain Dunning announced his intention of opening a law-suit against the captain of the Termagant for the unlawful appropriation of the whale harpooned by Glynn. The men highly approved of what they called a “shore-going scrimmage,” and advised the captain to go and have the captain and crew of the Termagant “put in limbo right off.”
Thus advised and encouraged, Captain Dunning went to a lawyer, who, after hearing the case, stated it as his opinion that it was a good one, and forthwith set about taking the needful preliminary steps to commencing the action.
Thereafter Captain Dunning walked rapidly home, wiping his hot brow as he went, and entering the parlour of the cottage—the yellow-faced cottage—flung himself on the sofa with a reckless air, and said, “I’ve done it!”
“Horror!” cried Aunt Martha.
“Misery!” gasped Aunt Jane, who happened to be fondling Ailie at the time of her brother’s entrance.
“Is he dead?”
“Quite dead?” added Martha.
“Is who dead?” inquired the captain, in surprise.
“The man—the rude sailor!”
“Dead! No.”
“You said just now that you had done it.”
“So I have. I’ve done the deed. I’ve gone to law.”
Had the captain said that he had gone to “sticks and stivers,” his sisters could not have been more startled and horrified. They dreaded the law, and hated it with a great and intense hatred, and not without reason; for their father had been ruined in a law-suit, and his father had broken the law, in some political manner they could never clearly understand, and had been condemned by the law to perpetual banishment.
“Will it do you much harm, dear, papa?” inquired Ailie, in great concern.
“Harm? Of course not. I hope it’ll do me, and you too, a great deal of good.”
“I’m so glad to hear that; for I’ve heard people say that when you once go into it you never get out of it again.”
“So have I,” said Aunt Martha, with a deep sigh.
“And so have I,” added Aunt Jane, with a deeper sigh, “and I believe it’s true.”
“It’s false!” cried the captain, laughing, “and you are all silly geese; the law is—”
“A bright and glorious institution! A desirable investment for the talents of able men! A machine for justice usually—injustice occasionally—and, like all other good things, often misused, abused, and spoken against!” said Glynn Proctor, at that moment entering the room, and throwing his hat on one chair, and himself on another. “I’ve had enough of the sea, captain, and have come to resign my situation, and beg for dinner.”
“You shall have it immediately, dear Glynn,” said Martha, whose heart warmed at the sight of one who had been so kind to her little niece.
“Nay, I’m in no hurry,” said Glynn, quickly; “I did but jest, dear madam, as Shakespeare has it. Perhaps it was Milton who said it; one can’t be sure; but whenever a truly grand remark escapes you, you’re safe to clap it down to Shakespeare.”
At this point the servant-girl announced dinner. At the same instant a heavy foot was heard in the passage, and Tim Rokens announced himself, saying that he had just seen the captain’s lawyer, and had been sent to say that he wished to see Captain Dunning in the course of the evening.
“Then let him go on wishing till I’m ready to go to him. Meanwhile do you come and dine with us, Rokens, my lad.”
Rokens looked awkward, and shuffled a little with his feet, and shook his head.
“Why, what’s the matter, man?”
Rokens looked as if he wished to speak, but hesitated.
“If ye please, cap’en, I’d raither not, axin’ the ladies’ parding. I’d like a word with you in the passage.”
“By