Part 22 (1/2)

When Queeker came to try it he felt uneasy--sitting as he did so high, and looking down such a precipice as it seemed to him. However, he shut his eyes, and courageously gave the accustomed chirp, and Slapover plunged down. Queeker held tight to the saddle, and although much shaken, would have come out of the ordeal all right, had not Slapover taken it into his head to make a second spring over a low bush which stood in front of him. On the other side of this bush there was an old pump. Queeker lost his balance, threw out his arms, fell off, was hurled violently against the old pump, and his right leg was broken!

A cart was quickly procured, and on trusses of straw the poor huntsman was driven sadly and slowly, back to Jenkinsjoy, where he was tenderly put to bed and carefully nursed for several weeks by his hospitable and sympathising friends.

Queeker bore his misfortune like a Stoic, chiefly because it developed the great fact that f.a.n.n.y Hennings wept a whole night and a day after its occurrence, insomuch that her fair face became so swollen as to have lost much of its ident.i.ty and all its beauty--a fact which filled Queeker with hopes so high that his recovery was greatly hastened by the contented, almost joyous, manner in which he submitted to his fate.

Of course Queeker's secret mission was, for the _time_ being, at an end;--and thus it came to pa.s.s that an old pump, as we said at the beginning of this chapter, was the cause of the failure of several deep-laid plans, and of much bodily anguish and mental felicity to the youthful Nimrod.

Queeker's last observation before falling into a feverish slumber on the first night after his accident, was to the effect that fox-hunting was splendid sport--magnificent sport,--but that it appeared to him there was no occasion whatever for a fox. And ever after that he was wont to boast that his first and last day of fox-hunting, which was an unusually exciting one, had been got though charmingly without any fox at all. It is even said that Queeker, descending from poetry,--his proper sphere,-- to prose, wrote an elaborate and interesting paper on that subject, which was refused by all the sporting papers and journals to which he sent it;--but, this not being certified, we do not record it as a fact.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

THE LAMPLIGHTER AT HOME, AND THREATENING APPEARANCES.

We turn now to a very different scene--the pier and harbour of Ramsgate.

The storm-fiend is abroad. Thick clouds of a dark leaden hue drive athwart a sky of dingy grey, ever varying their edges, and rolling out limbs and branches in random fas.h.i.+on, as if they were fleeing before the wind in abject terror. The wind, however, is chiefly in the sky as yet.

Down below there are only fitful puffs now and then, telling of something else in store. The sea is black, with sufficient swell on it to cause a few crested waves here and there to gleam intensely white by contrast. It is early in the day, nevertheless there is a peculiar darkness in the atmosphere which suggests the approach of night.

Numerous vessels in the offing are making with all speed for Ramsgate harbour, which is truly and deservedly named a ”harbour of refuge,” for already some two dozen s.h.i.+ps of considerable size, and a large fleet of small craft, have sought and found shelter on a coast which in certain conditions of the wind is fraught with danger. About the stores near the piers, Trinity men are busy with buoys, anchors, and cables; elsewhere labourers are toiling, idlers are loafing, and lifeboat--men are lounging about, leaning on the parapets, looking wistfully out to sea, with and without telescopes, from the sheer force of habit, and commenting on the weather. The broad, bronzed, storm-battered c.o.xswain of the celebrated Ramsgate lifeboat, who seems to possess the power of feeding and growing strong on hards.h.i.+p and exposure, is walking about at the end of the east pier, contemplating the horizon in the direction of the Goodwin Sands with the serious air of a man who expects ere long to be called into action.

The harbour-master--who is, and certainly had need be, a man of brain as well as muscle and energy, to keep the conflicting elements around him in order--moves about actively, making preparation for the expected gale.

Early on the morning of the day referred to, Nora Jones threaded her way among the stalls of the marketplace under the town-hall, as if she were in search of some one. Not succeeding in her search, she walked briskly along one of the main thoroughfares of the town, and diverged into a narrow street, which appeared to have retired modestly into a corner in order to escape observation. At the farther end of this little street, she knocked at the door of a house, the cleanly appearance of which attested the fact that its owner was well-doing and orderly.

Nora knocked gently; she did everything gently!

”Is Mrs Moy at home?” she asked, as a very bright little girl's head appeared.

No sooner was Nora's voice heard than the door was flung wide open, and the little girl exclaimed, ”Yes, she's at 'ome, and daddy too.” She followed up this a.s.surance with a laugh of glee, and, seizing the visitor's hand, dragged her into the house by main force.

”Hallo, Nora, 'ow are 'ee, gal?” cried a deep ba.s.s voice from the neighbourhood of the floor, where its owner appeared to be smothered with children, for he was not to be seen.

Nora looked down and beheld the legs and boots of a big man, but his body and head were invisible, being completely covered and held down by four daughters and five sons, one of the former being a baby, and one of the latter an infant.

d.i.c.k Moy, who was enjoying his month on sh.o.r.e, rose as a man might rise from a long dive, flung out his great right arm, scattered the children like flecks of foam, and sat up with a beaming countenance, holding the infant tenderly in his left arm. The baby had been cast under the table, where it lay, helpless apparently, and howling. It had pa.s.sed the most tender period of life, and had entered on that stage when knocks, cuts, yells, and bruises are the order of the day.

”Glad to see you, Nora,” said the man of the floating light, extending his huge hand, which the girl grasped and shook warmly. ”You'll excuse me not bein' more purlite. I'm oppressed with child'n, as you see. It seems to me as if I'd gone an' got spliced to that there 'ooman in the story-book wot lived in the shoe, an' had so many child'n she didn't know wot to do. If so, she knows wot to do now. She's only got to hand 'em over to poor d.i.c.k Moy, an' leave him to suffer the consickences.-- Ah, 'ere she comes.”

d.i.c.k rose as he spoke, and handed a chair to Nora at the moment that his better, but lesser, half entered.

It must not be supposed that d.i.c.k said all this without interruption.

On the contrary, he bawled it out in the voice of a bo's'n's mate, while the four daughters and five sons, including the baby and the infant, crawled up his legs and clung to his pockets, and enacted Babel on a small scale.

Mrs Moy was a very pretty, tidy, cheerful little woman, of the fat, fair, and forty description, save that she was nearer thirty-five than forty. It was clear at a glance that she and d.i.c.k had been made for each other, and that, had either married anybody else, each would have done irreparable damage to the other.

”Sit down, Nora. I'm so glad to see you. Come to breakfast, I hope?

we're just going to have it.”

Mrs Moy said this as if she really meant it, and would be terribly disappointed if she met with a refusal. Nora tried to speak, but Babel was too much for her.

”Silence!” burst from d.i.c.k, as if a small cannon had gone off in the room.