Charlie to the Rescue

Chapter Nine.

Shank Reveals Something More of his Character

Taking his way to the railway station Shank Leather found himself ere long at his mother’s door.

He entered without knocking.

“Shank!” exclaimed Mrs Leather and May in the same breath.

“Ay, mother, it’s me. A bad shilling, they say, always turns up. I always turn up, therefore I am a bad shilling! Sound logic that, eh, May?”

“I’m glad to see you, dear Shank,” said careworn Mrs Leather, laying her knitting-needles on the table; “you know I’m always glad to see you, but I’m naturally surprised, for this visit is out of your regular time.”

“Has anything happened?” asked May anxiously. And May looked very sweet, almost pretty, when she was anxious. A year had refined her features, developed her mind and body, and almost converted her into a little woman. Indeed, mentally, she had become more of a woman than many girls in her neighbourhood who were much older. This was in all likelihood one of the good consequences of adversity.

“Ay, May, something has happened,” answered the youth, flinging himself gaily into an arm-chair and stretching out his legs towards the fire; “I have thrown up my situation. Struck work. That’s all.”

“Shank!”

“Just so. Don’t look so horrified, mother; you’ve no occasion to, for I have the offer of a better situation. Besides—ha! ha! old Crossley—close-fisted, crabbed, money-making, skin-flint old Crossley—is going to pray for me. Think o’ that, mother—going to pray for me!”

“Shank, dear boy,” returned his mother, “don’t jest about religious things.”

“You don’t call old Crossley a religious thing, do you? Why, mother, I thought you had more respect for him than that comes to; you ought at least to consider his years!”

“Come, Shank,” returned Mrs Leather, with a deprecating smile, “be a good boy and tell me what you mean—and about this new situation.”

“I just mean that my friend and chum and old schoolfellow Ralph Ritson—jovial, dashing, musical, handsome Ralph—you remember him—has got me a situation in California.”

“Ralph Ritson?” repeated Mrs Leather, with a little sigh and an uneasy glance at her daughter, whose face had flushed at the mention of the youth’s name.

“Yes,” continued Shank, in a graver tone, for he had observed the flush on May’s face. “Ralph’s father, who is manager of a gold mine in California, has asked his son to go out and assist him at a good salary, and to take a clerk out with him—a stout vigorous fellow, well up in figures, book-keeping, carpenting, etcetera, and ready to turn his hand to anything, and Ralph has chosen me! What d’ee think o’ that?”

From her silence and expression it was evident that the poor lady’s thoughts were not quite what her son had hoped.

“Why don’t you congratulate me, mother?” he asked, somewhat petulantly.

“Would it not be almost premature,” she replied, with a forced smile, “to congratulate you before I know anything about the salary or the prospects held out to you? Besides, I cannot feel as enthusiastic about your friend Ralph as you do. I don’t doubt that he is a well-meaning youth, but he is reckless. If he had only been a man like your former friend, poor Charlie Brooke, it would have been different, but—”

“Well, mother, it’s of no use wishing somebody to be like somebody else. We must just take folk as we find them, and I find Ralph Ritson a remarkably fine, sensible fellow, who has a proper appreciation of his friends. And he’s not a bad fellow. He and Charlie Brooke were fond of each other when we were all schoolboys together—at least he was fond of Charlie, like everybody else. But whether we like him or not does not matter now, for the thing is fixed. I have accepted his offer, and thrown old Jacob overboard.”

“Dear Shank, don’t be angry if I am slow to appreciate this offer,” said the poor lady, laying aside her knitting and clasping her hands before her on the table, as she looked earnestly into her son’s face, “but you must see that it has come on me very suddenly, and I’m so sorry to hear that you have parted with good old Mr Crossley in anger—”

“We didn’t part in anger,” interrupted Shank. “We were only a little less sweet on each other than usual. There was no absolute quarrel. D’you think he’d have promised to pray for me if there was?”

“Have you spoken yet to your father?” asked the lady.

“How could I? I’ve not seen him since the thing was settled. Besides, what’s the use? He can do nothing for me, an’ don’t care a button what I do or where I go.”

“You are wrong, Shank, in thinking so. I know that he cares for you very much indeed. If he can do nothing for you now, he has at least given you your education, without which you could not do much for yourself.”

“Well, of course I shall tell him whenever I see him,” returned the youth, somewhat softened; “and I’m aware he has a sort of sneaking fondness for me; but I’m not going to ask his advice, because he knows nothing about the business. Besides, mother, I am old enough to judge for myself, and mean to take the advice of nobody.”

“You are indeed old enough to judge for yourself,” said Mrs Leather, resuming her knitting, “and I don’t wish to turn you from your plans. On the contrary, I will pray that God’s blessing and protection may accompany you wherever you go, but you should not expect me to be instantaneously jubilant over an arrangement which will take you away from me, for years perhaps.”

This last consideration seemed to have some weight with the selfish youth.

“Well, well, mother,” he said, rising, “don’t take on about that. Travelling is not like what it used to be. A trip over the Atlantic and the Rocky Mountains is nothing to speak of now—a mere matter of a few weeks—so that a fellow can take a run home at any time to say ‘How do’ to his people. I’m going down now to see Smithers and tell him the news.”

“Stay, I’ll go with you—a bit of the way,” cried May, jumping up and shaking back the curly brown hair which still hung in native freedom—and girlish fashion—on her shoulders.

May had a charming and rare capacity for getting ready to go out at a moment’s notice. She merely threw on a coquettish straw hat, which had a knack of being always at hand, and which clung to her pretty head with a tenacity that rendered strings or elastic superfluous. One of her brother’s companions—we don’t know which—was once heard to say with fervour that no hat would be worth its ribbons that didn’t cling powerfully to such a head without assistance! A shawl too, or cloak, was always at hand, somehow, and had this not been so May would have thrown over her shoulders an antimacassar or table-cloth rather than cause delay,—at least we think so, though we have no absolute authority for making the statement.

“Dear Shank,” she said, clasping both hands over his arm as they walked slowly down the path that led to the shore, “is it really all true that you have been telling us? Have you fixed to go off with—with Mr Ritson to California?”

“Quite true; I never was more in earnest in my life. By the way, sister mine, what made you colour up so when Ralph’s name was mentioned? There, you’re flushing again! Are you in love with him?”

“No, certainly not,” answered the girl, with an air and tone of decision that made her brother laugh.

“Well, you needn’t flare up so fiercely. You might be in love with a worse man. But why, then, do you blush?”

May was silent, and hung down her head.

“Come, May, you’ve never had any secrets from me. Surely you’re not going to begin now—on the eve of my departure to a foreign land?”

“I would rather not talk about him at all,” said the girl, looking up entreatingly.

But Shank looked down upon her sternly. He had assumed the parental rôle. “May, there is something in this that you ought not to conceal. I have a right to know it, as your brother—your protector.”

Innocent though May was, she could not repress a faint smile at the idea of a protector who had been little else than a cause of anxiety in the past, and was now about to leave her to look after herself, probably for years to come. But she answered frankly, while another and a deeper blush overspread her face—

“I did not mean to speak of it, Shank, as you knew nothing, and I had hoped would never know anything about it, but since you insist, I must tell you that—that Mr Ritson, I’m afraid, loves me at least he—”

“Afraid! loves you! How do you know?” interrupted Shank quickly.

“Well, he said so—the last time we met.”

“The rascal! Had he the audacity to ask you to marry him?—him—a beggar, without a sixpence except what his father gives him?”

“No, Shank, I would not let him get the length of that. I told him I was too young to—to think about such matters at all, and said that he must not speak to me again in such a way. But I was so surprised, flurried, and distressed, that I don’t clearly remember what I said.”

“And what did he say?” asked Shank, forgetting the parental rôle for a moment, and looking at May with a humorous smile.

“Indeed I can hardly tell. He made a great many absurd protestations, begged me to give him no decided answer just then, and said something about letting him write to me, but all I am quite sure of is that at last I had the courage to utter a very decided No, and then ran away and left him.”

“That was too sharp, May. Ralph is a first-rate fellow, with capital prospects. His father is rich and can give him a good start in life. He may come back in a few years with a fortune—not a bad kind of husband for a penniless lass.”

“Shank!” exclaimed May, letting go her brother’s arm and facing him with flashing eyes and heightened colour, “do you really think that a fortune would make me marry a man whom I did not love?”

“Certainly not, my dear sis,” said the youth, taking May’s hand and drawing it again through his arm with an approving smile. “I never for a moment thought you capable of such meanness, but that is a very different thing from slamming the door in a poor fellow’s face. You’re not in love with anybody else. Ralph is a fine handsome young fellow. You might grow to like him in time—and if you did, a fortune, of course, would be no disadvantage. Besides, he is to be my travelling companion, and might write to you about me if I were ill, or chanced to meet with an accident and were unable to write myself—don’t you know?”

“He could in that case write to mother,” said May, simply.

“So he could!” returned Shank, laughing. “I never thought o’ that, my sharp sister.”

They had reached the shore by that time. The tide was out; the sea was calm and the sun glinted brightly on the wavelets that sighed rather than broke upon the sands.

For some distance they sauntered in silence by the margin of the sea. The mind of each was busy with the same thought. Each was aware of that, and for some time neither seemed able to break the silence. The timid girl recovered her courage before the self-reliant man!

“Dear Shank,” she said, pressing his arm, “you will probably be away for years.”

“Yes, May—at least for a good long time.”

“Oh forgive me, brother,” continued the girl, with sudden earnestness, “but—but—you know your—your weakness—”

“Ay, May, I know it. Call it sin if you will—and my knowledge of it has something to do with my present determination, for, weak though I am, and bad though you think me—”

“But I don’t think you bad, dear Shank,” cried May, with tearful eyes; “I never said so, and never thought so, and—”

“Come, come, May,” interrupted the youth, with something of banter in his manner, “you don’t think me good, do you?”

“Well, no—not exactly,” returned May, faintly smiling through her tears.

“Well, then, if I’m not good I must be bad, you know. There’s no half-way house in this matter.”

“Is there not, Shank? Is there not very good and very bad?”

“Oh, well, if you come to that there’s pretty-good, and rather-bad, and a host of other houses between these, such as goodish and baddish, but not one of them can be a half-way house.”

“Oh yes, one of them can—must be.”

“Which one, you little argumentative creature?” asked Shank.

“Why, middling-good of course.”

“Wrong!” cried her brother, “doesn’t middling-bad stand beside it, with quite as good a claim to be considered half-way? However, I won’t press my victory too far. For the sake of peace we will agree that these are semi-detached houses in one block—and that will block the subject. But, to be serious again,” he added, stopping and looking earnestly into his sister’s face, “I wanted to speak to you on this weakness—this sin—and I thank you for breaking the ice. The truth is that I have felt for a good while past that conviviality—”

“Strong drink, brother, call it by its right name,” said May, gently pressing the arm on which she leaned.

“Well—have it so. Strong drink has been getting the better of me—mind I don’t admit it has got the better of me yet—only is getting—and convivial comrades have had a great deal to do with it. Now, as you know, I’m a man of some decision of character, and I had long ago made up my mind to break with my companions. Of course I could not very well do this while—while I was—well, no matter why, but this offer just seemed to be a sort of godsend, for it will enable me to cut myself free at once, and the sea breezes and Rocky Mountain air and gold-hunting will, I expect, take away the desire for strong drink altogether.”

“I hope it will—indeed I am sure it will if it is God’s way of leading you,” said May, with an air of confidence.

“Well, I don’t know whether it is God who is leading me or—”

“Did you not call it a god-send just now—”

“Oh, but that’s a mere form of speech, you know. However, I do know that it was on this very beach where we now stand that a friend led me for the first time to think seriously of this matter—more than a year ago.”

“Indeed—who was it?” asked May eagerly.

“My chum and old school-fellow, poor Charlie Brooke,” returned Shank, in a strangely altered voice.

Then he went on to tell of the conversation he and his friend had had on that beach, and it was not till he had finished that he became aware that his sister was weeping.

“Why, May, you’re crying. What’s the matter?”

“God bless him!” said May in fervent yet tremulous tones as she looked up in her brother’s face. “Can you wonder at my feeling so strongly when you remember how kind Charlie always was to you—to all of us indeed—ever since he was a little boy at school with you; what a true-hearted and steady friend he has always been. And you called him poor Charlie just now, as if he were dead.”

“True indeed, it is very, very sad, for we have great reason to fear the worst, and I have strong doubt that I shall never see my old chum again. But I won’t give up hope, for it is no uncommon thing for men to be lost at sea, for years even, and to turn up at last, having been cast away on a desert island, like Robinson Crusoe, or something of that sort.”

The thoughts which seemed to minister consolation to Shank Leather did not appear to afford much comfort to his sister, who hung her head and made no answer, while her companion went on—

“Yes, May, and poor Charlie was the first to make me feel as if I were a little selfish, though that as you know, is not one of my conspicuous failings! His straightforwardness angered me a little at first, but his kindness made me think much of what he said, and—well, the upshot of it all is that I am going to California.”

“I am glad—so glad and thankful he has had so much influence over you, dear Shank, and now, don’t you think—that—that if Charlie were with you at this moment he would advise you not to go to Mr Smithers to consult about your plans?”

For a few moments the brother’s face betrayed a feeling of annoyance, but it quickly cleared away.

“You are right, May. Smithers is too much of a convivial harum-scarum fellow to be of much use in the way of giving sound advice. I’ll go to see Jamieson instead. You can have no objection to him—surely. He’s a quiet, sober sort of man, and never tries to tempt people or lead them into mischief—which is more than can be said of the other fellow.”

“That is a very negative sort of goodness,” returned May, smiling. “However, if you must go to see some one, Jamieson is better than Smithers; but why not come home and consult with mother and me?”

“Pooh! what can women know about such matters? No, no, May, when a fellow has to go into the pros and cons of Californian life it must be with men.”

“H’m! the men you associate with, having been at school and the desk all their lives up till now, must be eminently fitted to advise on Californian life! That did not occur to me at the first blush!” said May demurely.

“Go home, you cynical baggage, and help mother to knit,” retorted Shank, with a laugh. “I intend to go and see Jamieson.”

And he went. And the negatively good Jamieson, who never led people into temptation, had no objection to be led into that region himself, so they went together to make a passing call—a mere look in—on Smithers, who easily induced them to remain. The result was that the unselfish man with decision of character returned home in the early hours of morning—“screwed.”

Chapter Ten.

Home-coming and Unexpected Surprises

Upwards of another year passed away, and at the end of that time a ship might have been seen approaching one of the harbours on the eastern seaboard of America. Her sails were worn and patched. Her spars were broken and spliced. Her rigging was ragged and slack, and the state of her hull can be best described by the word ‘battered.’ Everything in and about her bore evidence of a prolonged and hard struggle with the elements, and though she had at last come off victorious, her dilapidated appearance bore strong testimony to the deadly nature of the fight.

Her crew presented similar evidence. Not only were their garments ragged, threadbare, and patched, but the very persons of the men seemed to have been riven and battered by the tear and wear of the conflict. And no wonder; for the vessel was a South Sea whaler, returning home after a three years’ cruise.

At first she had been blown far out of her course; then she was very successful in the fishing, and then she was stranded on the reef of a coral island in such a position that, though protected from absolute destruction by the fury of the waves, she could not be got off for many months. At last the ingenuity and perseverance of one of her crew were rewarded by success. She was hauled once more into deep water and finally returned home.

The man who had been thus successful in saving the ship, and probably the lives of his mates—for it was a desolate isle, far out of the tracks of commerce—was standing in the bow of the vessel, watching the shore with his companions as they drew near. He was a splendid specimen of manhood, clad in a red shirt and canvas trousers, while a wide-awake took the place of the usual seafaring cap. He stood head and shoulders above his fellows.

Just as the ship rounded the end of the pier, which formed one side of the harbour, a small boat shot out from it. A little boy sculled the boat, and, apparently, had been ignorant of the ship’s approach, for he gave a shout of alarm on seeing it, and made frantic efforts to get out of its way. In his wild attempts to turn the boat he missed a stroke and went backwards into the sea.

At the same moment the lookout on the ship gave the order to put the helm hard a-starboard in a hurried shout.

Prompt obedience caused the ship to sheer off a little, and her side just grazed the boat. All hands on the forecastle gazed down anxiously for the boy’s reappearance.

Up he came next moment with a bubbling cry and clutching fingers.

“He can’t swim!” cried one.

“Out with a lifebelt!” shouted another.

Our tall seaman bent forward as they spoke, and, just as the boy sank a second time, he shot like an arrow into the water.

“He’s all safe now,” remarked a seaman quietly, and with a nod of satisfaction, even before the rescuer had reappeared.

And he was right. The red-shirted sailor rose a moment later with the boy in his arms. Chucking the urchin into the boat he swam to the pier-head with the smooth facility and speed of an otter, climbed the wooden piles with the ease of an athlete, walked rapidly along the pier, and arrived at the head of the harbour almost as soon as his own ship.

“That’s the tenth life he’s saved since he came aboard—to say nothin’ o’ savin’ the ship herself,” remarked the Captain to an inquirer, after the vessel had reached her moorings. “An’ none o’ the lives was as easy to manage as that one. Some o’ them much harder.”