A glass door, with scratches here and there, through which the head of the firm could gaze unseen, separated “the office” from Denham’s room, and a wooden door separated that from Crumps’ room, beyond which there was a small closet or cell which had been Company’s room before that gentleman died. It was now used as a repository for ancient books and papers.
“Very odd,” said Mr Denham, and as he said so he touched a small silver bell that stood on his writing-table.
The tiger in blue and buttons instantly appeared.
“Here, Peekins, post these letters. Has no one called this afternoon; I mean, no one resembling a sailor?”
The boy in blue started, and his face became very red.
“Why, what’s the matter, boy? What do you mean by staring at me, instead of answering my question?”
“Please, sir,” stammered Peekins meekly, “I didn’t mean no ’arm, sir, but you see, sir, his face was so drefful fierce, and he looked sich a wild—”
“Boy, are you mad?” interrupted Mr Denham, advancing and seizing the tiger by his blue collar; “what are you talking about? Now, answer my question at once, else I’ll shake the little life you have out of your body. Did any sailor-like man call at the office this afternoon?”
“Oh, sir, yes, sir,—I—I—thought he was drunk and wouldn’t let ’im in, sir; he’s bin a standin’ stampin’ at the door for more than—”
The end of the sentence was cut short by Mr Denham suddenly ejecting the boy from the room and shouting, “Let him in!”
In a few seconds a heavy tread was heard in the outer office, and the boy ushered in a tall young man, of unusually large proportions, with extremely broad shoulders, and apparently about twenty-three years of age, whose rough pilot-coat, wide pantaloons, and glazed hat bespoke him a sailor. His countenance was flushed, and an angry frown contracted his brow as he strode into the room, pulled off his hat and stood before the head of the house of Denham, Crumps, and Company.
“I beg pardon, sir,” began the sailor, somewhat sharply, yet without disrespect, “when I am asked to come—”
“Yes, yes, Bax,” interposed Mr Denham, “I know what you would say. Pray calm yourself. It is a pity you should have been kept waiting outside, but the fact is that my boy is a new one, and apparently he is destitute of common sense. Sit down. I sent for you to say that I wish you to take the ‘Nancy’ to Liverpool. You will be ready to start at once, no doubt—”
“Before the schooner is overhauled?” inquired Bax, in surprise.
“Of course,” said Denham, stiffly; “I see no occasion for another overhaul. That schooner will cost us more than she is worth if we go on repairing at the rate we have been doing the last two years.”
“She needs it all, sir,” rejoined Bax, earnestly. “The fact is, Mr Denham, I feel it to be my duty to tell you that there ain’t a sound plank or timber in her from stem to stern, and I’m pretty sure that if she costs you money, she’s likely to cost me and the men aboard of her our lives. I strongly advise you to strike her off the books, and get a new one.”
“Mr Bax,” said Denham, pompously, “you are too young a man to offer your advice unless it is asked. I believe the engineer employed by me to examine into the condition of my vessels is quite competent to judge in these matters, and I have unbounded confidence in him. When I placed you in command of the ‘Nancy,’ I meant you to navigate, not to criticise her; but if you are afraid to venture—”
“Afraid!” cried the young sailor, reddening. “Is anxiety about the lives of your men and the safety of your property to be called fear? I am willing to sail in the ‘Nancy’ as long as a plank of her will hold to her ribs, but—”
Bax paused and bit his lip, as if to keep back words which had better not be spoken.
“Well, then,” rejoined Mr Denham, affecting to disregard the pause, “let me hear no more about repairs. When these require to be done, they shall be done. Meanwhile, go and make preparation to sail by the morning tides which serves about—what hour, think you?”
“Flood at half after six,” said Bax, curtly.
“Very well, come up here at half-past five, one of the clerks will see you. You will have to run down to Dover in the first place, and when there my agent will give you further instructions. Good afternoon!”
Bax rose and quitted the room with a stern “Good day, sir.”
As he passed through the outer office he was arrested by one of the clerks laying a hand on his shoulder.
“Well, Mr Foster,” said Bax, a bright smile chasing the frown from his face, “it seems we’re to swim if we can, or sink if we can’t this winter;—but what want ye with me?”
“You are to call me Guy, not Mister Foster,” said the lad, gaily. “I want to know where you are to be found after six this evening.”
“At the ‘Three Jolly Tars,’” answered Bax, clapping on his glazed hat.
“All right, I’ll look you up. Good-day.”
“Guy Foster,” shouted Mr Denham from the inner room.
“Yes, uncle,” and in another moment the youth was standing, pen in hand, in the august presence of his relative, who regarded him with a cold stare of displeasure.
There could scarcely have been conceived a stronger contrast in nature than that which existed between the starched, proud, and portly uncle, and the tall, handsome, and hearty young nephew, whose age was scarcely twenty years.
“How often am I to tell you, sir,” said Mr Denham, “that ‘yes, uncle,’ is much too familiar and unbusinesslike a phrase to be used in this office in the hearing of your fellow-clerks?”
“I beg pardon, uncle, I’m sure I had no intention of—”
“There, that will do, I want no apology, I want obedience and attention to my expressed wishes. I suppose that you expect to get away for a few days’ holiday?”
“Well, unc—, sir, I mean, if it is quite convenient I should—”
“It is not quite convenient,” interrupted the uncle. “It cannot possibly, at any time, be convenient to dispense with the services of a clerk in a house where no supernumeraries are kept to talk slang and read the newspapers. I see no reason whatever in young men in ordinary health expecting as a right, two or three weeks’ leave each year without deduction of salary. I never go to the country or to the sea-side from one year’s end to the other.”
“You’d be much the better for it if you did, uncle,” interposed Guy.
“That, sir,” retorted Denham with emphasis, “is your opinion, and you will allow me to say that it is erroneous, as most of your opinions, I am sorry to find, are. I find that no change is necessary for my health. I am in better condition than many who go to Margate every summer. I thrive on town air, sir, and on city life.”
There was much truth in these observations. The worthy merchant did indeed seem to enjoy robust health, and there could be no question that, as far as physical appearances went, he did thrive on high living, foul air, and coining money. Tallow and tar sent forth delicious odours to him, and thick smoke was pleasant to his nostrils, for he dealt largely in coal, and all of these, with many kindred substances, were productive of the one great end and object of his life—gold.
“However,”