Part 58 (2/2)

But it was not a time for mirth: we were all too sad, and Barkins contented himself with whispering--

”I say, I'm jolly glad it wasn't I who said that. Don't the skipper take it coolly now? But he'll give old Dishy a talking-to for it when he gets him alone.”

Mr Reardon's face was not visible to us, but we could see his movements, which were, so to speak, fidgety, for he began to walk up and down hastily, and once or twice I heard him mutter--

”How could I be such a fool?”

A dead chill had settled down upon the s.h.i.+p, and I felt as I stood there as if eight or nine years had suddenly dropped away from me--that I was a little child again, and that I should like to creep below somewhere out of sight, or sit down and cry and sob.

For it was such a horrible lesson to me of the nearness of death, and I felt as if it was impossible for it all to be true--that it must be some terrible dream.

And now for the first time it dawned upon me that I had a liking for the strange, simple-hearted Chinaman, who had always shown himself to be frank, honest, and brave in our service. He had been comic and peculiar, but always devoted to me as a faithful servant; and now, just too as I was joining in the mirth against him, instead of being indignant on behalf of one who had been insulted by the men's horseplay, he was as it were s.n.a.t.c.hed from life to death.

I was brought back to the present by a voice at my ear--

”Poor old Ching! I am sorry, Gnat.”

”Yes, and so am I.”

I had not seen my messmates all through the trouble, and now they appeared close to me in the darkness in a way which made me start.

I turned to them, and I don't know how it was, but as we three stood there in the darkness, which was hardly relieved by a lantern here and there, Barkins held out his hand and shook mine, holding it tightly without letting go. Directly after, Smith took my other hand to give it a warm, strong pressure; and then we three parted without a word more, Barkins going one way, Smith another, while I went to the stern rail and leaned my arms upon it, and then rested my chin upon my arms to gaze out over the rus.h.i.+ng water at the two blue stars.

But they were not there now. They had burned out some time before, and I could see nothing, only take it for granted that the boats were being slowly rowed back against the heavy tide, our anchor-lights acting as their guide.

”Is it possible that they have found him after all?” I thought, and for a minute I was hopeful. But once more the hope died out, for I knew well enough that if they had picked the poor fellow up they would have cheered.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

A SURPRISE.

That night had set in very dark. The clouds were heavy overhead, and the river now looked intensely black, but toward the sh.o.r.e there were the dull lights of the Chinese town glimmering in the water, while from some building, whether on account of a religious ceremony or a festival, a great gong was being beaten heavily, its deep, sonorous, quivering tones floating over the place, and reaching my ears like the tolling of a church bell.

It only wanted that depressing sound to make my spirits at the lowest ebb, and set me thinking of home, the perils of the career in which I was engaged, and wondering whether I should ever see England again.

The watch had been set, and from time to time Mr Reardon came aft to look anxiously astern.

The last time Mr Brooke was with him, and they stopped near where I was standing.

”But they ought to be back by now,” Mr Reardon said.

”It's a long pull,” Mr Brooke replied, ”and the tide is terribly sharp at this time.”

”Yes, yes--it is; but I want to see them back. Who's that?”

”Herrick, sir.”

<script>