set foot on shore in Waterford itself. I wish those fellows would bear a hand and bring me some food—that and a night’s rest will restore my strength and enable me to consider what to do better than I now can. I have run many a narrow chance of losing my life, but never was I nearer to death than to-day—another hour or two on the raft would have finished me, and then where should I have been? Bah! I must not allow such thoughts to trouble me, or I shall become nerveless as a young girl.”
In spite of all his efforts the thoughts he dreaded would intrude on the stranger’s mind. He looked eagerly for the return of the seaman with the promised food and grog. Dan, in the mean time, with the bundle of wet clothes under his arm, had made his way forward to the caboose, where Pompey was busy blowing away at his fire and trying to get his kettle and a saucepan of broth to boil.
“Well, Dan, my jewel, who dis fellow just come on board? What you tink about him?” asked Pompey.
“Faith, it’s more than he thought fit to tell me,” answered Dan. “All I know is that he’s a mighty fine-spoken gentleman, with a big purse of gold in his pocket.”
“In which pocket?” asked Pompey eagerly, taking up the jacket.
“You big thief, you don’t think I am after laving it to your itching fingers—no, no, Pompey, even if the gentleman himself hadn’t taken it out, he’s been too long at sea not to guess pretty shrewdly that the shiners would vanish if the purse found its way forrard,” said Dan.
“You’ll not be after calling me a big thief, Dan?” exclaimed Pompey, getting angry at this insinuation against his honesty.
“No, but I’ll back your tongue to wag faster than any man’s in this ship,” replied Dan. “Come, bear a hand and get the water to boil, and then we’ll hang up these clothes to dry, for the stranger doesn’t look like a man who’ll be content to lie in bed longer than he can help, and he’ll be wanting to get up to-morrow morning and show himself on deck.”
“He may be a mighty fine gentleman,” muttered Pompey, “but I never did see much good come in hauling a man, whoever he was, out of de water.”
“What’s that you say, you old thief of the world?” exclaimed Dan. “Whether good or bad comes of it, it was as brave a thing as you or I or any man ever saw done, to leap on the raft as our mate did and manage to bring the stranger on board. We’ve some stout fellows among us, but not one would have dared to do that same. When the skipper hears of it he’ll be after praising him as he deserves; and there’s some one else, too, who’ll not think the less of him than she does now. It won’t be my fault if I don’t let the skipper know how it all happened—though maybe the stranger won’t forget to tell him—but as for the mate himself, he’s as likely as not to make light of it, and just to say that it’s what any other man would have done as well.”
The opinion uttered by Dan was shared generally among the crew, with whom Owen Massey stood deservedly high.
“Come, bear a hand, Pompey,” continued Dan; “the watch will be out before you get that fire to burn.”
By dint of hard puffing Pompey succeeded in his object, and Dan went aft with a kettle of hot water in one hand and a basin of soup in the other. He then, having obtained the requisite amount of rum, repaired to the mate’s cabin, where he found the stranger on the point of dropping off from exhaustion, and almost in a state of insensibility. The broth and grog, however, quickly revived him. He uttered but few words of thanks, and again falling back on his pillow, dropped off to sleep.
Gerald, who had witnessed Owen’s gallant act, trembling lest he should fail and lose his life, gave a shout of joy when he saw him successful and safe again on board. Prompted by his feelings, he sprang towards the mate, and grasping his hand, exclaimed, “Bravely done, Mr. Massey! Oh, how thankful I am that you got him on board! It did not seem possible. Had you been lost, it would have broken Norah’s heart, and my poor father’s too—for, sick as he is, he couldn’t have borne it. I must go and tell them how it all happened—they’ll think more of you than ever—but I’m very glad Norah wasn’t on deck, for she would have felt as I did, and been terribly alarmed.”
“Hush, Gerald, hush! you think more of the affair than it deserves,” said Owen; “had I run any risk of losing my life, your father might have blamed me, as the safety of the ship while he is ill is committed to my charge; but remember that I took the precaution of having a rope round my waist, so that I couldn’t come to any harm, and what I did any man with strength and nerve could have done likewise—so, Gerald, don’t make a fuss about the matter. I saved the man’s life, there’s no doubt about that, and he, therefore, is the only person who need thank me.”
Notwithstanding what the mate had said, Gerald hurried into the cabin and gave a report of what had occurred, not failing to express his own opinion of the gallantry of the act. Norah, who had listened with breathless interest while he spoke, uttered an ejaculation of thankfulness, forgetting to make any inquiry about the man who had been saved. Captain Tracy, however, expressed himself much as Owen expected he would.
“It was a rash though brave deed,” he observed, “but I’ll not blame him—he had no time, evidently, to think of the risk he was running, but acted as his gallantry prompted him. He did not get any hurt, I hope?”
“No, father, beyond a thorough wetting—it was all done in a moment—he was on board again almost before I could have looked round, walking the deck as if nothing had happened,” answered Gerald.
“I am thankful for that,” said the captain; “and where have they stowed the man he saved? Poor fellow! it would have been hard lines with him, in such a sea as is still running, if he had not been picked up.”
“The mate put him into his own cabin,” said Gerald; “the cook has been heating some soup for him, as he seemed very weak and pretty nigh exhausted.”
“Owen might have let him go forward with the men; they would have looked after him carefully enough,” observed Captain Tracy. “There was no necessity for Owen to give up his own cabin—but he is always generous and ready to sacrifice his own comforts for others.”
“But the stranger from his way of speaking and dress seems to be an officer, and he would think himself badly treated if he had been sent forward,” said Gerald.
“I must hear more about him from Owen,” said the captain; “ask him to come here as soon as he can leave the deck and has got on dry clothes. How’s the weather now, Gerald?”
“It is moderating rapidly, father, and the mate thinks we shall have smooth water and a light breeze before night,” was the answer.
When Gerald returned on deck he found the mate giving orders to loose the topsails. As soon as this was done, the wind still decreasing, the foresail and mainsail were set, and before long the ship was bounding proudly over the seas with as much canvas as could be carried. At length, leaving the deck in charge of the boatswain, Owen repaired to the cabin and answered many questions put to him by the captain. He might well have been satisfied with the approbation he received from Norah, if not from her lips, from those bright blue eyes of hers—even the captain forgot to scold him as he had intended for his rashness.
“We shall hear more about the man to-morrow, when he has recovered,” he observed; “he’ll need a long rest, for he must have pretty well given up all hope of his life when you saved him, till the ship hove in sight—and even then he could scarcely expect to be picked up with the sea there was running at the time. Well, I trust that he’ll be grateful.”
The captain then made inquiries about the sick men, of whom Owen was able to give a favourable report.
“Thank God for that!” said the captain. “I feel myself quite another man to what I have been for many a day, and I hope to-morrow to be on deck again. If this stranger proves to be a seaman he may give you some relief by doing duty on board; you’ve had a trying time of it, Owen, and it is a mercy you’ve not knocked up.”
Owen now bade the captain and