Part 62 (2/2)
Observe, how very politely he takes off his hat to that Frenchman, with whom he has just settled accounts; he beats Johnny c.r.a.peau at his own weapons. And then there is an air of command, a feeling of conscious superiority about Jack; see how he treats the landlord, _de haut en bas_, at the same time that he is very civil. The fact is, that Jack is of a very good, old family, and received a very excellent education; but he was an orphan, his friends were poor, and could do but little for him: he went out to India as a cadet, ran away, and served in a schooner which smuggled opium into China, and then came home. He took a liking to the employment, and is now laying up a very pretty little sum: not that he intends to stop: no, as soon as he has enough to fit out a vessel for himself, he intends to start again for India, and with two cargoes of opium, he will return, he trusts, with a handsome fortune, and re-a.s.sume his family name. Such are Jack's intentions; and, as he eventually means to reappear as a gentleman, he preserves his gentlemanly habits: he neither drinks, nor chews, nor smokes. He keeps his hands clean, wears rings, and sports a gold snuff-box; notwithstanding which, Jack is one of the boldest and best of sailors, and the men know it. He is full of fun, and as keen as a razor. Jack has a very heavy venture this time-- all the lace is his own speculation, and if he gets it in safe, he will clear some thousands of pounds. A certain fas.h.i.+onable shop in London has already agreed to take the whole off his hands.
That short, neatly-made young man is the second in command, and the companion of the captain. He is clever, and always has a remedy to propose when there is a difficulty, which is a great quality in a second in command. His name is Corbett. He is always merry--half-sailor, half-tradesman; knows the markets, runs up to London, and does business as well as a chapman--lives for the day, and laughs at to-morrow.
That little punchy old man, with long gray hair and fat face, with a nose like a note of interrogation, is the next personage of importance.
He ought to be called the sailing-master, for, although he goes on sh.o.r.e in France, off the English coast he never quits the vessel. When they leave her with the goods, he remains on board; he is always to be found off any part of the coast where he may be ordered; holding his position in defiance of gales, and tides, and fogs: as for the revenue-vessels, they all know him well enough, but they cannot touch a vessel in ballast, if she has no more men on board than allowed by her tonnage. He knows every creek, and hole, and corner, of the coast; how the tide runs in--tide, half-tide, eddy, or current. That is his value. His name is Morrison.
You observe that Jack Pickersgill has two excellent supporters in Corbett and Morrison; his other men are good seamen, active, and obedient, which is all that he requires. I shall not particularly introduce them.
”Now you may call for another _litre_, my lads, and that must be the last; the tide is flowing fast, and we shall be afloat in half an hour, and we have just the breeze we want. What d'ye think, Morrison, shall we have dirt?”
”I've been looking just now, and if it were any other month in the year I should say, yes; but there's no trusting April, captain. Howsomever, if it does blow off, I'll promise you a fog in three hours afterwards.”
”That will do as well. Corbett, have you settled with Duval?”
”Yes, after more noise and _charivari_ than a panic in the Stock Exchange would make in England. He fought and squabbled for an hour, and I found that, without some abatement, I never should have settled the affair.”
”What did you let him off?”
”Seventeen sous,” replied Corbett, laughing.
”And that satisfied him?” inquired Pickersgill.
”Yes--it was all he could prove to be a _surfaire_: two of the knives were a little rusty. But he will always have something off; he could not be happy without it. I really think he would commit suicide, if he had to pay a bill without a deduction.”
”Let him live,” replied Pickersgill. ”Jeannette, a bottle of Volnay, of 1811, and three gla.s.ses.”
Jeannette, who was the _fille de cabaret_, soon appeared with a bottle of wine, seldom called for, except by the captain of the _Happy-go-lucky_.
”You sail to-night?” said she, as she placed the bottle before him.
Pickersgill nodded his head.
”I had a strange dream,” said Jeannette; ”I thought you were all taken by a revenue cutter, and put in a _cachot_. I went to see you, and I did not know one of you again--you were all changed.”
”Very likely, Jeannette--you would not be the first who did not know their friends again when in misfortune. There was nothing strange in your dream.”
”_Mais, mon Dieu! je ne suis pas comme ca moi_.”
”No, that you are not, Jeannette; you are a good girl, and some of these fine days I'll marry you,” said Corbett.
”_Doit etre bien beau ce jour la, par exemple_,” replied Jeannette, laughing; ”you have promised to marry me every time you have come in, these last three years.”
”Well, that proves I keep to my promise, any how.”
”Yes; but you never go any further.”
”I can't spare him, Jeannette, that is the real truth,” said the captain: ”but wait a little--in the meantime, here is a five-franc piece to add to your _pet.i.te fortune_.”
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