Chapter 8. How A Crew, That Would Sail On A Washing-Day...

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_ CHAPTER VIII. HOW A CREW, THAT WOULD SAIL ON A WASHING-DAY, WAS SHIPWRECKED: WITH AN ADVERTISEMENT AGAINST WOMEN

It was a bright April morning, and the Admiral's boat, as it swept proudly past the little town, cast a wealth of bright reflection on the water. Inhabitants of Troy, sitting at their windows, and overlooking the harbour, caught sight of the yellow dresses, the blue coat with its gold lace, and the red face beneath the cocked-hat, and whispered to each other that something was in the wind.

Jane and Calypso rowed--for the Trojan maidens in those days were not above pulling an oar, and did not mind blisters--while Sophia sat in the bows, her mushroom hat "a world too wide" for the little green parasol hoisted above it. The Admiral himself held the tiller ropes, and occasionally gave a word of command. It was a gracious spectacle.

But as the boat drew clear of the jetties with their press of vessels, and Kit's Cottage hove in sight, the Admiral's eyes, which were fixed ahead, grew suddenly very large and round.

"This is very extraordinary!" he muttered, "very extraordinary indeed!"

"What is it, papa?" and the three Misses Buzza simultaneously turned their mushroom hats to look.

"I cannot tell, Sophia; but to me it appears as if these people were--not to put too fine a point upon it--washing."

It was quite true. On the little beach, Mr. Fogo, with his sleeves turned up and a large apron pinned around him, was standing before a huge tub, industriously washing. The tub rested on a couple of stools. A little to the left, Caleb Trotter, with his back turned to the river, was wringing the articles of male costume which his master handed him, and disposing them about the shingle to dry.

The Admiral had chosen a washing-day for his first call at Kit's House.

The approach of the boat was at first unperceived; for Caleb, as I said, had his back turned to it, and Mr. Fogo's spectacles were bent over his employment.

"Really," murmured the Admiral, as his eye travelled over the beach, "anything more indelicate--Why, Miss Limpenny might be rowing this way for anything they know. Hi, sir!"

Still grasping the tiller-lines, the Admiral stood up on the stern seat and shouted.

At the sound Mr. Fogo raised his spectacles and blandly stared through them at the strangers. Caleb started, turned suddenly round, and came rushing down the beach, his right hand frantically waving them back, his left grasping a pair of--(Oh! Miss Limpenny!)

"Hi! you must go back. Go away, I tell 'ee!" he gesticulated.

"What on--"

"Go away; no females allowed here. Off with 'ee this moment!"

"Put down those --s, sir," yelled the Admiral.

"Sarve 'ee right: no business to come: 'tes Bachelor's Hall, this, an' us don't want no womankind trapesin' here: so keep your distance. Go 'long!" And Caleb began to wave again.

"Sir," cried the Admiral, appealing to Mr. Fogo, "what is the meaning of this extraordinary reception?"

"Eh? What?" said that gentleman, who apparently had fallen into a fit of deep abstraction. "I beg your pardon. I did not quite catch--"

"What is the meaning of all this, sir?" The Admiral was scarlet with passion.

"Oh, it's quite right, I believe--quite right. Caleb will tell you." As he gave this astonishing answer in a far-away tone, Mr. Fogo's spectacles rested on his visitor for a moment with a smile of deepest benevolence. Then, with a sigh, he resumed his washing.

The Admiral positively danced with rage.

"There, what did I tell 'ee?" exclaimed Caleb triumphantly. "That's your answer, and now you can go 'long home. Off with 'ee!"

The Admiral's reply would probably have contained some strong words. It was arrested by a catastrophe.

During this altercation the tide had been rising, and carried the boat gently up towards the little beach. As the Admiral opened his mouth to retort, the boat's nose jarred upon a sunken heap of pebbles. The shock was slight, but enough to upset his equilibrium. Without any warning, the Admiral's heels shot upwards, and the great man himself, with a wild clutch at vacancy, soused backwards-- cocked-hat and all--into the water.

The three Misses Buzza with one accord clasped their hands and uttered dismal shrieks; the three mushroom hats shook with terror. Mr. Fogo looked up from his washing.

"Papa! oh, save him--save our dear Papa!"

There was no danger. Presently a crimson face rose over the boat's stern, blowing like a grampus. A pair of dripping epaulets followed; and then the Admiral stood up, knee-deep in water, and swore and spat alternately.

How different from that glittering hero, at sight of whom, not an hour before, the Trojan dames at their lattices had stopped their needlework to whisper! Down his nose and chin ran a pitiable flood; his scanty locks, before so wiry and obstinate, lay close against his ears; his gorgeous uniform, tarnished with slime, hung in folds, and from each fold poured a separate cascade; the whole man had become suddenly shrunken.

Speechless with rage, the little man clambered over the stern and shook his fist at the wondering spectacles of Mr. Fogo.

"You shall repent this, sir! You shall--Jane, push the boat off at once!"

But even the dignity of a fine exit was denied the Admiral. The boat was by this time firmly aground, and he was forced to stand, forming large pools upon the stern-board, while the grinning Caleb pushed her off. And still Mr. Fogo looked mildly on, with his hands in the wash-tub.

"Do you hear me, sir? You shall repent this!" raved the Admiral.

"Now, don't 'ee go upsettin' yourself again, 'cos wance es enough. An' 't'ain't no good to be vexed wi' Maaster, 'cos he don't mind 'ee. 'Tes like Smoothey's weddin'--all o' one side. Next time, I hopes you'll listen when you'm spoken to."

And with a chuckle, Caleb sent the boat spinning into deep water. Scarce daring to look at their father, the Misses Buzza plunged their oars into the brine, and the Admiral, still shaking his fist, was borne slowly out of sight. At last even his language failed upon the breeze.

Caleb quietly returned to his work.

"Thicky Adm'ral," he observed, contemplatively, after a silence of a minute or so, "puts me in mind o' Humphrey Hambly's ducks, as is said to look larger than they be."

He paused in the act of wringing a shirt, to look at Mr. Fogo.

The next instant the shirt was lying on the shingle, and Caleb had sprung upon his master, taken him by the shoulders, and was shaking him with might and main.

"Come, wake up! Do 'ee hear? What be glazin' at?"

"Eh? Dear me!" stammered Mr. Fogo, as well as he might for the shaking. "What's all this?"

"Axin' your pardon, sir," explained Caleb, continuing the treatment, "but 'tes all for your good, like ringin' a pig. You'm a-woolgatherin'; wake up!"

Mr. Fogo came to himself, and sat down upon a log of timber to rearrange his thoughts and his spectacles. Caleb stood over him and sternly watched his recovery.

"You are quite right, Caleb: my thoughts were wandering. Your treatment is a trifle rough, but honest. Are those extraordinary people gone?"

"Iss, sir; here they were, but gone--like Jemmy Rule's larks."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Figger o' speech, sir. They be gone right enough--Adm'ral Buzza in full fig, and a row o' darters in jallishy buff. I sent 'em 'bout their bus'ness. Look 'ee here, sir: ef you'll promise to sit quiet and keep your wits at home, I'll run down to town for a happord o' tar."

"Tar, Caleb?"

"Iss, sir, tar!" and with this Caleb turned on his heel and strode away across the shingle. In a moment or two he had untied his boat from the little quay, and was pulling down towards Troy Town.

When he returned, it was with a huge board, a pot of tar, and a brush. He looked anxiously about the beach, but Mr. Fogo was nowhere to be seen. "Drownded hissel'," was Caleb's first thought, but his ear caught the sound of hammering up at the house. He walked indoors to see that all was right.

"How be feelin'?" he asked, putting his head in at the dining-room door.

Mr. Fogo laid down the mallet with which he had been nailing a loose plank in the flooring, and looked up.

"All right, Caleb, thank you."

"I was afear'd you might be none compass agen."

"What?"

"None compass--Greek for 'mazed.' Good-bye for the present, sir."

Caleb borrowed a hammer, a nail or two, and a spade, and descended again to the beach. Here he chose a spot carefully, and began to dig a large hole in the shingle. This finished, he turned to the board, and spent some time with the brush in his hand and his head on one side, thinking. Then he began to paint vigorously.

Half-an-hour later, a tall post with a board on top stood on the beach at Kit's House. On the board, in letters six inches long, was tarred the following inscription:--

TAKE NOTICE.

ALL WIMMEN
FOUND TRAPESING ON THIS
BEECH WILL BE DEALT
WITH ACCORDING
TO THE LAW.

Above this notice jauntily rested the Admiral's cocked-hat, which had drifted ashore further up on the shingle--an awful witness to the earnestness of the threat and the vanity of human greatness.

Caleb stood in front of his handiwork and gazed at it with honest pride for some minutes; then went into the house to fetch Mr. Fogo forth to look. He was absent for some minutes. When he returned with his master, their eyes were greeted with a curious sight.

On the spit of shingle, and staring open-mouthed at the notice, stood the Twins, their honest faces expressing the extreme of perplexity. A few yards off the shore, in their boat, waited Tamsin, and leant quietly on her paddles.

At the sight of her, Caleb's face fell a full inch; but he led his master down and planted him resolutely in front of the board. Mr. Fogo stared helplessly from it to the Twins.

"Mornin', sir," said Peter, after a long pause. His face wore a deepened colour, and he smiled awkwardly.

"Good-morning," replied Mr. Fogo.

"A fine mornin'," repeated Peter, with a long gaze at the board, "an' no mistake."

There was another long interval, during which everybody stared hard at the Notice.

"'Tes a powerful fine mornin'," Peter re-asserted very slowly, "ef so be as your station in life es in noways connected with turmuts. Ef 'tes the less us says about the mornin' the better." With this observation Peter looked hard at Mr. Fogo, as if the ball of conversation now lay in that gentleman's hands.

"What do 'ee think o' this 'ere Notice?" broke in Caleb.

Paul twitched his yellow bandanna and smiled evasively.

"'Tes very pretty writin', sir, sure-ly," he replied, addressing Mr. Fogo. "Nice thick down-strokes, an' all as it shou'd be."

"Uncommon fash'nubble et makes the beach look, sir, a'ready," added Peter.

Some mental reservation seemed to lurk behind this criticism. Mr. Fogo looked dubiously from the Twins to Caleb, who stood with his eyes fixed on his handiwork.

"Axin' your pard'n, sir, an' makin' so free as to mention et," began Peter at length, pulling off his hat and twirling the brim between his fingers, "but us was a bit taken aback, not understandin' as fash'nubbleness was to begin so smart; or us wou'dn't have introoded--spesh'ly Tamsin. Tamsin was thinkin' this mornin' as a pound of fresh butter might be acceptable to the gentl'm'n down at Kit's House, wi' ha'f a dozen fresh eggs or so, 'cos her Minorcy hen began to lay agen last week, an' the spickaty Hamburg as allays lays double yolks; an' Paul an' me agreed you wudn' be above acceptin' a little present o' this natur', not seemin' proud, an' Tamsin shou'd bring et hersel', the eggs bein' hers in a manner o' speakin'. But us was not wishful to introod, sir, an' iver since us seed the board here, her's been keepin' her distance in the boat yonder; on'y us stepped ashore to larn ef there was anything us cou'd do to make things ship-shape an' fitty for 'ee."

At the end of this long address, Peter, whose mahogany face was several shades deeper, pulled up, and resumed his hat.

"Ship-shape an' fitty--not wishful for to introod. That's so, Peter," echoed his brother.

Mr. Fogo looked at the pair helplessly, and again at Caleb, whose eyes were obstinately averted.

"Caleb!"

"Sir."

"Ask Miss Dearlove if she would mind stepping ashore."

With a sudden brightening of face, Caleb called her name. Tamsin looked up.

"Ef 'ee please, you'm to come ashore, to wance!"

The girl rowed a couple of strokes, grounded the boat, and stepped lightly ashore with a big basket and an unembarrassed glance at the Notice.

"There's a few young potatoes at the bottom," she said, with a curtsey, as she handed her gift to Mr. Fogo. "They're the earliest and best anywhere in these parts. Can you cook potatoes?" she asked, suddenly turning to Caleb. Beneath her sun-bonnet her pretty cheek was flushed, and her chin thrust forward with just a shadow of defiance.

"Iss, to be sure," grinned Caleb. "Why, us does our own washin'."

Tamsin's eyes travelled without bashfulness over the array upon the beach.

"Pretty washing, I expect!" She walked up and took some of the clothes into her hand. "Look here--not half-wrung--and some fallen in the mud and dirtied worse than ever."

With fine contempt she moved among the clothes, wrung them, spread them out again, and even returned with some to the wash-tub. Like four whipped schoolboys the males looked on as she tucked up the sleeves of her neat print gown.

"Soap, too, left to float in the wash-tub, and--salt water I declare! Caleb, empty this and get some soft water from the old butt by the back door. Oh, you poor, helpless baby!"

Mr. Fogo, though the words were not spoken to him, winced and turned to stare abstractedly at the river.

"Sir," said Caleb from his hammock that night, "cudn' 'ee put in a coddysel?"

"A codicil?"

"Iss, just to say, 'No wimmen allowed but Tamsin Dearlove--us don't mind she.' Wudn' that do, sir?"

"I'm afraid not, Caleb. By-the-bye, how does your Notice run? 'All women found trespassing will be--'"

"Dealt wi' 'cordin' to the law, sir."

"Dear me, Caleb!" murmured Mr. Fogo, "but I trust that under no circumstances should I deal with a woman otherwise than according to the law." _

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