Part 7 (1/2)
”Right it is,” says the woman aloft. ”'Tis easy seen you're a hurler. But what shall us do for a cradle? Hendry Watty! Hendry Watty!”
”Ma'am to _you_,” says my grandfather.
”If you've the common feelings of a gentleman, I'll ask you kindly to turn your back; I'm going to take off my stocking.”
So my grandfather stared the other way very politely; and when he was told he might look again, he saw she had tied the stocking to the line and was running it out like a cradle into the dead waste of the night.
”Hendry Watty! Hendry Watty! Look out below!”
Before he could answer, plump! a man's leg came tumbling past his ear and scattered the ashes right and left.
”Hendry Watty! Hendry Watty! Look out below!”
This time 'twas a great white arm and hand, with a silver ring sunk tight in the flesh of the little finger.
”Hendry Watty! Hendry Watty! Warm them limbs!”
My grandfather picked them up and was warming them before the fire, when down came tumbling a great round head and bounced twice and lay in the firelight, staring up at him. And whose head was it but Archelaus Rowett's, that he'd run away from once already, that night?
”Hendry Watty! Hendry Watty! Look out below!”
This time 'twas another leg, and my grandfather was just about to lay hands on it, when the woman called down:
”Hendry Watty! catch it quick! It's my own leg I've thrown down by mistake!”
The leg struck the ground and bounced high, and Hendry Watty made a leap after it. . . .
And I reckon it's asleep he must have been: for what he caught was not Mrs. Rowett's leg, but the jib-boom of a deep-laden brigantine that was running him down in the dark. And as he sprang for it, his boat was crushed by the brigantine's fore-foot and went down under his very boot-soles. At the same time he let out a yell, and two or three of the crew ran forward and hoisted him up to the bowsprit and in on deck, safe and sound.
But the brigantine happened to be outward-bound for the River Plate; so that, what with one thing and another, 'twas eleven good months before my grandfather landed again at Port Loe. And who should be the first man he sees standing above the cove but William John Dunn?
”I'm very glad to see you,” says William John Dunn.
”Thank you kindly,” answers my grandfather; ”and how's Mary Polly?”
”Why, as for that,” he says, ”she took so much looking after, that I couldn't feel I was keeping her properly under my eye till I married her, last June month.”
”You was always one to over-do things,” said my grandfather.
”But if you was alive an' well, why didn' you drop us a line?”
Now when it came to talk about ”dropping a line” my grandfather fairly lost his temper. So he struck William John Dunn on the nose-- a thing he had never been known to do before--and William John Dunn hit him back, and the neighbours had to separate them. And next day, William John Dunn took out a summons against him.
Well, the case was tried before the magistrates: and my grandfather told his story from the beginning, quite straightforward, just as I've told it to you. And the magistrates decided that, taking one thing with another, he'd had a great deal of provocation, and fined him five s.h.i.+llings. And there the matter ended. But now you know the reason why I'm William John Dunn's grandson instead of Hendry Watty's.
JETSOM.
Where Gerennius' beacon stands High above Pendower sands; Where, about the windy Nare, Foxes breed and falcons pair; Where the gannet dries a wing Wet with fishy harvesting, And the cormorants resort, Flapping slowly from their sport With the fat Atlantic shoal, Homeward to Tregeagle's Hole-- Walking there, the other day, In a bight within a bay, I espied amid the rocks, Bruis'd and jamm'd, the daintiest box, That the waves had flung and left High upon an ivied cleft.
Striped it was with white and red, Satin-lined and carpeted, Hung with bells, and shaped withal Like the queer, fantastical Chinese temples you'll have seen Pictured upon white Nankin, Where, a.s.sembled in effective Head-dresses and odd perspective, Tiny dames and mandarins Expiate their egg-sh.e.l.l sins By reclining on their drumsticks, Waving fans and burning gum-sticks.
Land of poppy and pekoe!
Could thy sacred artists know-- Could they distantly conjecture How we use their architecture, Ousting the indignant Joss For a pampered Flirt or Floss, Poodle, Blenheim, Skye, Maltese, Lapped in purple and proud ease-- They might read their G.o.d's reproof Here on blister'd wall and roof; Scaling lacquer, dinted bells, Floor befoul'd of weed and sh.e.l.ls, Where, as erst the tabid Curse Brooded over Pelops' hea.r.s.e, Squats the sea-cow, keeping house, Sibylline, gelatinous.
Where is Carlo? Tell, O tell, Echo, from this fluted sh.e.l.l, In whose concave ear the tides Murmur what the main confides Of his compa.s.s'd treacheries!
What of Carlo? Did the breeze Madden to a gale while he, Curl'd and cus.h.i.+on'd cosily, Mixed in dreams its angry breathings With the tinkle of the tea-things In his mistress' cabin laid?
--Nor dyspeptic, nor dismay'd, Drowning in a gentle snore All the menace of the sh.o.r.e Thunder'd from the surf a-lee.