Part 33 (2/2)
”Well,” resumed d.i.c.k Moy, ”it seems he has more than once set fire to his premises in Gravesend, and got the insurance money. Hows'ever, he has got fourteen years' transportation now, an' that'll take the s.h.i.+ne pretty well out of him before he comes back.”
”How did the poor gal take it?” asked Jack.
d.i.c.k replied that she was very bad at first, but that she got somewhat comforted by the way her father behaved to her and listened to her readin' o' the Bible after he was condemned. It might be that the death of his old mother had softened him a bit, for she died with his name on her lips, her last words being, ”Oh Morley, give it up, my darling boy, give it up; it's your only chance to give it up, for you inherit it, my poor boy; the pa.s.sion and the poison are in your blood; oh, give it up, Morley, give it up!”
”They do say,” continued d.i.c.k, ”that Jones broke down altogether w'en he heard that, an' fell on his gal's neck an' cried like a babby. But for my part I don't much believe in them deathbed repentances--for it's much the same thing wi' Jones now, he bein' as good as dead. It's not wot a man _says_, but how a man _lives_, as'll weigh for or against him in the end.”
”An' what more did he say?” asked Jerry MacGowl, stopping down the tobacco in his pipe with one of his fire-proof fingers; ”you see, havin'
bin on the sick-list so long, I haven't got up all the details o' this business.”
”He didn't say much more,” replied d.i.c.k, sc.r.a.ping away at the sea-weed and barnacles with renewed vigour, ”only he made his darter promise that she'd marry Jim Welton as soon after he was gone as possible. She did nothing but cry, poor thing, and wouldn't hear of it at first, but he was so strong about it, saying that the thought of her being so well married was the only thing as would comfort him w'en he was gone, that she gave in at last.”
”Sure then she'll have to make up her mind,” said Jerry, ”to live on air, which is too light food intirely for any wan excep' hummin'-birds and potes.”
”She'll do better than that, mate,” returned d.i.c.k, ”for Jim 'as got appointed to be a.s.sistant-keeper to a light'ouse, through that fust-rate gen'leman Mr Durant, who is 'and an' glove, I'm told, wi' the Elder Brethren up at the Trinity 'Ouse. It's said that they are to be spliced in a week or two, but, owin' to the circ.u.mstances, the weddin' is to be kep' quite priwate.”
”Good luck to em!” cried Jerry. ”Talkin' of the Durants, I s'pose ye've heard that there's goin' to be a weddin' in that family soon?”
”Oh, yes, I've heard on it,” cried d.i.c.k; ”Miss Durant--Katie, they calls her--she's agoin' to be spliced to the young doctor that was wrecked in the Wellington. A smart man that. They say 'ee has stepped into 'is father's shoes, an' is so much liked that 'ee's had to git an a.s.sistant to help him to get through the work o' curin' people--or killin' of 'em.
I never feel rightly sure in my own mind which it is that the doctors does for us.”
”Och, don't ye know?” said Jerry, removing his pipe for a moment, ”they keeps curin' of us as long as we've got any tin, an' when that's done they kills us off quietly. If it warn't for the doctors we'd all live to the age of Methoosamel, excep', of coorse, w'en we was cut off by accident or drink.”
”Well, I don't know as to that,” said Jack Shales, in a hearty manner; ”but I'm right glad to hear that Miss Durant is gettin' a good husband, for she's the sweetest gal in England, I think, always exceptin' one whom I don't mean for to name just now. Hasn't she been a perfect angel to the poor--especially to poor old men--since she come to Ramsgate? and didn't she, before goin' back to Yarmouth, where she b'longs to, make a beautiful paintin' o' the lifeboat, and present it in a gold frame, with tears in her sweet eyes, to the c.o.xswain o' the boat, an' took his big fist in her two soft little hands, an' shook an' squeezed it, an' begged him to keep the pictur' as a very slight mark of the grat.i.tude an'
esteem of Dr Hall an' herself--that was after they was engaged, you know? Ah! there ain't many gals like _her_,” said Jack, with a sigh, ”always exceptin' _one_.”
”Humph!” said d.i.c.k Moy, ”I wouldn't give my old 'ooman for six dozen of 'er.”
”Just so,” observed Jerry, with a grin, ”an' I've no manner of doubt that Dr Hall wouldn't give _her_ for sixty dozen o' your old 'ooman.
It's human natur', lad,--that's where it is, mates. But what has come o' Billy Towler? Has he gone back to the what's-'is-name--the Cavern, eh?”
”The Grotto, you mean,” said Jack Shales.
”Well, the Grotto--'tan't much differ.”
”He's gone back for a time,” said d.i.c.k; ”but Mr Durant has prowided for _him_ too. He has given him a berth aboord one of his East-Indiamen; so if Billy behaves hisself his fortin's as good as made. Leastwise he has got his futt on the first round, an' the ladder's all clear before him.”
”By the way, what's that I've heard,” said Jack Shales, ”about Mr Durant findin' out that he'd know'd Billy Towler some years ago?”
”I don't rightly know,” replied d.i.c.k. ”I've 'eerd it said that the old gentleman recognised him as a beggar boy 'e'd tuck a fancy to an' putt to school long ago; but Billy didn't like the school, it seems, an'
runn'd away--w'ich I don't regard as wery surprisin'--an' Mr Durant could never find out where 'e'd run to. That's how I 'eerd the story, but wot's true of it I dun know.”
”There goes the dinner-bell!” exclaimed Jack Shales, rising with alacrity on hearing a neighbouring clock strike noon.
Jerry rose with a sigh, and remarked, as he shook the ashes out of his pipe, and put it into his waistcoat pocket, that his appet.i.te had quite left him; that he didn't believe he was fit for more than two chickens at one meal, whereas he had seen the day when he would have thought nothing of a whole leg of mutton to his own cheek.
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