Part 1 (1/2)
Young Tom Bowling.
by J.C. Hutcheson.
CHAPTER ONE.
FATHER AND I ”ARGUE THE POINT.”
”Hullo, father!” I sang out, when we had got a little way out from the pontoon and opened the mouth of the harbour, noticing, as I looked over my shoulder to see how we were steering, a string of flags being run up aboard the old _Saint Vincent_. ”They're signalling away like mad this morning all over the shop! First, atop of the dockyard semaph.o.r.e; and then the flags.h.i.+p and the old _Victory_, both of 'em, blaze out in bunting; while now the _Saint Vincent_ joins in at the game of 'follow- my-leader.' I wonder what's up?”
”Lor' bless you, Tom!” rejoined father, still steadily tugging on at his stroke oar as we pursued our course towards the middle of the stream, so that we might take advantage of the last of the flood, and allow the gradually slackening tide, which was nearly at the turn, to drift us down alongside the old _Victory_, whither we were bound to pick up a fare for the sh.o.r.e--”nothing in pertickler's up anyways uncommon that I sees, sonny; and as for the buntin' that you're making sich a fuss about, why, they've hauled all that down, and pretty near unbent all the signal flags, too, and stowed 'em away in their lockers by this time!”
”But, father,” I persisted, ”they don't always go on like this for nothing, I know!”
”In coorse they don't, stoopid!” said he, giving the water an angry splash as he reached forwards, the blade of his oar sending up a tidy sprinkle across my face. ”Why, where's your wits, Tom, this mornin'?”
”Where you put them, father,” I replied with a laugh; ”you know I'm your son, and mother says I'm 'a chip of the old block' whenever she's a bit put out with me.”
”None o' your imporence, Tom,” said he, laughing too; for he and I were the best of friends, and I don't think we ever had a serious difference about anything since first I was able to toddle down to the Hard, a little mite of four or five, to see him put off in his wherry, and sometimes go out for a sail with him on the sly when mother wasn't watching us, up to the time, as now, when I could help him with an oar.
”None o' your imporence, you young jackanapes. But touching that there signallin', I'm surprised, sonny, you don't know by this time that when the commander-in-chief up at Admiralty House, in the dockyard, wishes for to communicate to some s.h.i.+p out at Spithead, he telegraphs from his office to the semaph.o.r.e, which h'ists his orders, and then every s.h.i.+p in port's bound to repeat the signal till the craft he means it for runs up her answering pennant, for to show us how she's took the signal in and underconstubled it.”
”Oh yes, father, I know that,” said I, leading him on purposely. ”But what is the signal they've been so busy about this morning? I can't make it out at all.”
Father snorted indignantly.
”Tom Bowling, junior, I'm right down ashamed on you for a son o' mine!”
he said, digging away at his oar savagely, as if trying to dredge up some of the silt from the bottom of the harbour. ”You, turned fifteen year old, and been back'ard and forrud 'twixt Hardway and the Gosport sh.o.r.e for a matter of five years or more, and not for to know and read a common signal like that, which you must 'a seed run up at the semaph.o.r.e or on board the _Dook_ a hundred times at least. Lor'! I'm jest 'shamed of you, that's what I be!”
”But that ain't telling me, father,” I retorted, ”what _is_ the signal.
You needn't make such a blooming mystery of it, like that chap we saw t'other night at the theayeter!”
In return for my 'cheek' he splashed the water over me again.
”Well, if you don't know it, sonny, which I can hardly believe on, and wants for to know to improve your mind, which needs a lot of improvement, as I knows, that theer signal, Tom, was that cruiser we saw out at Spithead yesterday a-trying her speed at the measured mile, the _Mercury_, I thinks she is, axin' the port-admiral if she might have her sailin' orders; and look there, sonny, the 'affirmative' 's now run up at the mizzen aboard the _Dook_, over yonder!”
”Yes, father,” said I, playing him artfully, like the wily old fish he was, with an object which you will soon learn--”and what does that mean?”
”What does that mean? You blessed young h'ignoramus! Why, Tommy, your brains be all wool-gathered this mornin'! Can't you see that old Sir Ommaney is tellin' the cruiser to 'carry on' as soon as she likes, and bid adoo to Spithead when she's weighed her anchor? See, too, sonny, the old _Vict'ry_ and the _Saint Vincent_ be now a-repeatin' the signal arter the _Dook_, the same as they did that first h'ist, jest now!”
”That is, father,” said I innocently like--”the port-admiral gives that cruiser outside permission to go to sea?”
”Aye, Tom,” he answered, without suspecting what my inquiry was leading up to--”that's just it. You've reckoned it up to a nicety, my hearty.”
Now came the opportunity for which I had been waiting.
”The old port-admiral may be a martinet, as they say, in the dockyard,”
I said; ”but he's a kinder chap than you are, father.”
”The admiral kinder than me, sonny,” he repeated, in a surprised tone--”why, how's that, Tom?”