Foul Play by Dion Boucicault (english reading book TXT) 📕

two men in it, the skipper and the negro. The skipper came up the side of the Springbok. He was loosely dressed in some light drab-colored stuff and a huge straw hat; a man with a long Puritanical head, a nose inclined to be aquiline, a face bronzed by weather and heat, thin, resolute lips, and a square chin. But for a certain breadth between his keen gray eyes, which revealed more intellect than Cromwell’s Ironsides were encumbered with, he might have passed for one of that hard-praying, hard-hitting fraternity.

He came on deck, just touched his hat, as if to brush away a fly, and, removing an enormous cigar from his mouth, said, “Wal, and so this is the Springbok. Spry little boat she is; how many knots can ye get out of her now? Not that I am curious.”

“About twelve knots.”

“And when the steam’s off the bile, how many can you sail? Not that it is my business.”

“Eight or nine. What is your business?”

“Hum! You have been over some water looking for that gal. Where do ye hail from last?”

“The Society Islands. Did you board me to hear me my catechism?”

“No, I am not one of your prying sort. Where are ye bound for now?”

“I am bound for Easter Island.”

“Have you heard anything of the gal?”

“No.”

“And when do ye expec’ to go back to England as wise as ye came?”

“Never while the ship can swim,” cried Moreland angrily, to hide his despondency from this stranger. “And now it is my turn, I think. What schooner is this? by whom commanded, and whither bound?”

“The Julia Dodd; Joshua Fullalove; bound for Juan Fernandez with the raw material of civilization—look at the varmint skippin’—and a printing-press; an’ that’s the instrument of civilization, I rather think.”

“Well, sir; and why in Heaven’s name did you change your course?”

“Wal, I reckon I changed it—to tell you a lie.”

“To tell us a lie?”

“Ay; the darnedest etarnal lie that ever came out of a man’s mouth. Fust, there’s an unknown island somewheres about. That’s a kinder flourish beforehand. On that island there’s an English gal wrecked.”

Exclamations burst forth on every side at this.

“And she is so tarnation ‘cute, she is flying ducks all over creation with a writing tied to their legs, telling the tale, and setting down the longitude. There, if that isn’t a buster, I hope I may never live to tell another.”

“God bless you, sir,” cried the general. “Where is the island?”

“What island?”

“The island where my child is wrecked.”

“What, are you the gal’s father?” said Joshua, with a sudden touch of feeling.

“I am, sir. Pray withhold nothing from me you know.”

“Why, cunule,” said the Yankee, soothingly; “don’t I tell you it’s a buster? However, the lie is none o’ mine, it’s that old cuss Skinflint set it afloat; he is always pisoning these peaceful waters.”

Rolleston asked eagerly who Skinflint was, and where he could be found.

“Wal, he is a sorter sea Jack-of-all-trades, etarnally cruising about to buy gratis—those he buys of call it stealing. Got a rotten old cutter, manned by his wife and fam’ly. They get coal out of me for fur, and sell the coal at double my price; they kill seals and dress the skins aboard; kill fish and salt ‘em aboard. Ye know when that fam’ly is at sea by the smell that pervades the briny deep an’ heralds their approach. Yesterday the air smelt awful. So I said to Vespasian here, ‘I think that sea-skunk is out, for there’s something a-pisoning the cerulean waves an’ succumambient air.’ We hadn’t sailed not fifty miles more before we run agin him. Their clothes were drying all about the rigging. Hails me, the varmint does. Vesp and I, we work the printing-press together, an’ so order him to looward, not to taint our Otaheitans, that stink of ile at home, but I had ‘em biled before I’d buy ‘em, an’ now they’re vilets. ‘Wal now, Skinflint,’ says I; ‘I reckon you’re come to bring me that harpoon o’ mine you stole last time you was at my island?’ ‘I never saw your harpoon,’ says he; ‘I want to know have you come across the Springbok?’ ‘Mebbe I have,’ says I; ‘why do you ask?’ ‘Got news for her,’ says he; ‘and can’t find her nowheres.’ So then we set to and fenced a bit; and this old varmint, to put me off the truth, told me the buster. A month ago or more he was boarded—by a duck. And this yar duck had a writing tied to his leg, and this yar writing said an English gal was wrecked on an island, and put down the very longitude. ‘Show me that duck,’ says I, ironical. ‘D’ye take us for fools?’ says he; ‘we ate the duck for supper.’ ‘That was like ye,’ says I; ‘if an angel brought your pardon down from heights celestial, you’d roast him, and sell his feathers for swan’s-down; mebbe ye ate the writing? I know y’ are a hungry lot.’ ‘The writing is in my cabin,’ says he. ‘Show it me,’ says I, ‘an’ mebbe I’ll believe ye.’ No, the cuss would only show it to the Springbok; ‘there’s a reward,’ says he. ‘What’s the price of a soul aboard your cutter?’ I asked him. ‘Have you parted with yours, as you want to buy one?’ says he. ‘Not one as would carry me right slick away to everlasting blazes,’ says I. So then we said good-morning, and he bore away for Valparaiso. Presently I saw your smoke, and that you would never overhaul old Stinkamalee on that track; so I came about. Now I tell you that old cuss knows where the gal is, and mebbe got her tied hand and fut in his cabin. An’ I’m kinder sot on English gals; they put me in mind of butter and honey. Why, my schooner is named after one. So now, cunule, clap on steam for Valparaiso, and you’ll soon overhaul the old stink-pot. You may know him by the brown patch in his jib-sail, the ontidy varmint. Pull out your purse and bind him to drop lying about ducks and geese, and tell you the truth; he knows where your gal is, I swan. Wal, ye needn’t smother me.” For by this time he was the center of a throng, all pushing and driving to catch his words.

Captain Moreland begged him to step down into his cabin, and there the general thanked him with great warmth and agitation for his humanity. “We will follow your advice at once,” he said. “Is there anything I can offer you, without offense?”

“Wal,” drawled the Yankee, “I guess not. Business an’ sentiment won’t mix nohow. Business took me to the island, sentiment brought me here. I’ll take a shake-hand all round. And if y’ have got live fowls to spare, I’ll be obliged to you for a couple. Ye see I’m colonizing that darned island; an’ sowing in with grain, an’ Otaheitans, an’ niggers, an’ Irishmen, an’ all the cream o’ creation; an’ I’d be glad of a couple o’ Dorkins to crow the lazy varmint up.”

This very moderate request was heartily complied with, and the acclamation and cheers of the crew followed this strange character to his schooner, at which his eye glistened and twinkled with quiet satisfaction, but he made it a point of honor not to move a muscle.

Before he could get under way, the Springbok took a circuit, and, passing within a hundred yards of him, fired a gun to leeward by way of compliment, set a cloud of canvas, and tore through the water at her highest speed. Outside the port of Valparaiso she fell in with Skinflint, and found him not quite so black as he was painted. The old fellow showed some parental feeling, produced the bag at once to General Rolleston, and assured him a wearied duck had come on board, and his wife had detached the writing.

They took in coal; and then ran westward once more, every heart beating high with confident hope.

 

CHAPTER XLVIII.

 

HELEN’S act was strange, and demands a word of explanation. If she had thought the steamboat was a strange vessel, she would have lighted the bonfire; if she had known her father was on board, she would have lighted it with joy. But Hazel, whose every word now was gospel, had said it was Arthur Wardlaw in that boat, searching for her.

Still, so strong is the impulse in all civilized beings to get back to civilization, that she went up that hill as honestly intending to light the bonfire as Hazel intended it to be lighted. But, as she went, her courage cooled, and her feet began to go slowly, as her mind ran swiftly forward to consequence upon consequence. To light that bonfire was to bring Arthur Wardlaw down upon herself and Hazel living alone and on intimate terms. Arthur would come and claim her to his face. Could she disallow his claim? Gratitude would now be on his side as well as good faith. What a shock to Arthur! What torture for Hazel! torture that he foresaw, or why the face of anguish, that dragged even now at her heart-strings? And then it could end only in one way; she and Hazel would leave the island in Arthur’s ship. What a voyage for all three! She stood transfixed by shame; her whole body blushed at what she saw coming. Then once more Hazel’s face rose before her; poor crippled Hazel! her hero and her patient. She sat down and sighed, and could no more light the fire than she could have put it out if another had lighted it.

She was a girl that could show you at times she had a father as well as a mother. But that evening she was all woman.

They met no more that night.

In the morning his face was haggard, and showed a mental struggle; but hers placid and quietly beaming, for the very reason that she had made a great sacrifice. She was one of that sort.

And this difference between them was a foretaste.

His tender conscience pricked him sore. To see her sit beaming there, when, if he had done his own duty with his own hands she would be on her way to England! Yet his remorse was dumb; for, if he gave it vent, then he must seem ungrateful to her for her sacrifice.

She saw his deep and silent compunction, approved it secretly; said nothing, but smiled, and beamed, and soothed. He could not resist this; and wild thrills of joy and hope passed through him, visions of unbroken bliss far from the world.

But this sweet delirium was followed by misgivings of another kind. And here she was at fault. What could they be?

It was the voice of conscience telling him that he was really wining her love, once inaccessible; and, if so, was bound to tell her his whole story, and let her judge between him and the world, before she made any more sacrifices for him. But it is hard to stop great happiness; harder to stop it and ruin it. Every night, as he lay alone, he said, “Tomorrow I will tell her all, and make her the judge.” But in the morning her bright face crushed his purpose by the fear of clouding it. His limbs got strong and his heart got weak. And they used to take walks, and her head came near his shoulder. And the path of duty began to be set thicker than ever with thorns; and the path of love with primroses. One day she made him sit to her for his portrait;