that had gone a little queer in the bottom of the tub.
“Now, Mr. Sharkey, let us see if you can digest that,” exclaimed Jack, as he dropped the hook overboard.
The shark looked at it closely, and then looked up at Jack, as though he would much prefer the fisher to the bait.
“It is no use, Jack,” said Harry; “he is not hungry.”
“Strikes me it is unskilfulness in angling, rather than want of appetite on the shark’s part,” remarked Mr. Mole.
“Would you like to have a try, sir?”
“Hem! well, I don’t mind showing you how to do it,” responded the professor.
Jack began to haul in the line, coiling it down just at Mole’s feet, or rather where his feet should have been.
But sharkey, finding himself in danger of losing his dinner, made a dart at the meat before it left the water, then discovering that the barb of the hook had stuck in his mouth, she darted off at a great rate, but sad to relate, the rope as it flew out over the bulwark, got twisted round one of Mr. Mole’s stumps, and the worthy professor flew into the ocean For a wooden-legged man to swim well, or even to keep himself afloat by treading water, is a somewhat difficult task and so Mr. Mole would have found it, had not Harry Girdwood promptly followed the advice given by a celebrated American–
“When you see a drowning man, throw a rail at him.”
Harry threw a plank, and Mr. Mole being fortunate enough to clutch it, was thereby enabled to keep himself afloat.
But he was exposed to another danger.
The shark being irritated by the rusty iron in his throat, was rushing hither and thither in a most furious manner, snapping his jaws in a way that made the spectators thankful they were on deck.
And then, turning on its back, it bit at Mole.
“Help, help!” shouted Mole.
“Oh! the brute has taken my leg off.”
The shark resumed its natural position, and held Mole’s stump above water, puzzled to know what to do with it.
“This is my fault,” said young Jack, and seizing a cutlass, he leaped overboard.
“Lower away the boat,” shouted Dick Harvey, who had just come on deck.
He and Jefferson had also armed themselves, and were about to leap in to young Jack’s assistance, when Harkaway senior appeared.
“Hold, let no man here risk his life,” he said.
“But–”
“But the excitement will do me good, I want a good fight to keep my spirits up.”
While speaking he had thrown off his coat and shoes, and cutlass in hand, leaped to the rescue of his son and old Mole.
By this time, however, the boat had been lowered and was pulling rapidly towards Mr. Mole, who still clung to his plank about thirty yards from the stern of the vessel.
Old Jack with a few powerful strokes reached him.
“Hold on, Mr. Mole; the boat is coming. You youngster, swim out of the way at once.”
“I’m going to fight the fish, dad.”
“You are not. Away with you at once.”
During this brief conversation the shark had been down out of sight. He now rose to the surface, and perceiving three enemies, seemed undecided which to attack first.
And while the fish was hesitating, Harkaway resolved to open the campaign. Accordingly he dived, with the intention of coming up beneath the fish and administering a stab.
Old Jack Tiller and Joe Basalt were just at that moment engaged in hauling Mr. Mole into the boat; they had him half way over the gunwale, when the shark made a snap and away went the professor’s other leg.
“Mercy, help! The beast is devouring me by inches,” screamed Mole, as he rolled headlong into the boat.
Joe Basalt seeing that young Jack was still itching to have a go at the shark, seized him by the collar and dragged him in. They then rested on their oars and prepared to give the elder Harkaway any assistance they could.
“I lay five to three against the monster of the deep,” said Harvey.
“I accept the wager on those terms,” said Mole, who having discovered that he was unhurt, was reviving.
He took another swig at the pistol and then sat up to watch the conflict.
The shark, finding he had now only one opponent to deal with, turned towards Harkaway, who dived again, and getting this time fairly beneath the fish, thrust his cutlass up to the hilt in its stomach.
Startled by this sudden attack, and smarting from the pain caused by the wound, the shark leaped up half out of the water, and then fell with a loud splash close by Jack.
Everyone on board was by this time on deck, watching the unequal struggle.
While the shark was twisting and turning to get at its adversary, Jack managed to give a second stab; but it was rather hot work, though, for Jack was obliged to dive so frequently that he had little time to recover his breath.
He was just endeavouring to do so, when the shark made another rush at him.
Old Jack dived again, and young Jack would have been over to his father’s assistance had not Joe Basalt forcibly restrained him.
A third stab made the shark feel very queer indeed.
In fact, Harkaway thought the fish was done for, and had struck out for the ship, but just as he grasped a rope and permitted himself to be drawn up, the shark recovered and made another most vicious dart at him.
Our hero, who had, in his time, vanquished so many foes, felt hardly inclined to let a shark get the best of him. He dropped from the rope and sank beneath the waves just as the head of the brute emerged therefrom.
Then up again like a shot; and the keen cutlass tore its way through the vitals of the fish.
Then a fin was lopped off, and a few seconds afterwards the huge carcase was seen floating on the waves.
Harkaway seized the rope and fastened it round the head and tail of his vanquished foe, which was then hauled on deck.
“Bravo, old man,” exclaimed Harvey, shaking his schoolfellow by the hand.
“You did that well.”
“Though you were certainly a long time about it,” observed Mole. “I could have–”
“You could have paid me three sovs. by this time,” replied Harvey, “so just out with the dust.”
Mole made no reply.
Jefferson then added his congratulations.
“Pshaw!” said Jack. “Mr. Mole did it all.”
“How?”
“Why, he poisoned the poor shark with his wooden legs. It’s enough to make a fish disgusted with life.”
A loud laugh followed.
“Meanwhile,” said Mole, “will some-one be good enough to give me a lift?”
The professor was hoisted up on deck, and when they had all changed their clothes, and the great shark-killer had shipped two new wooden pins, he grew quite as bounceable as ever.
Especially as the death of the last shark was still jocularly attributed to him.
CHAPTER XLVIII
OLD JOE PLOTS WITH HUNSTON–WHAT CAME OF THE PLOT.
The Harkaway family and their guests were all assembled at dinner, after the shark-fishing, when the conversation turned upon their old enemy.
“I wish we were fairly rid of him,” said Mrs. Harkaway, “for all the while he is on board, I feel as if some misfortune were hanging over us.”
Jack smiled.
“Have you had any dreams, Emily?” he asked, slily,
“Don’t learn to mock, sir,” retorted the lady, with mock asperity, “You have been influenced by dreams yourself before now.”
Jack looked serious.
“That’s true.”
“And we owe this wretched man nothing–”
“But hate.”
“We do that,” said Jefferson; “but he is a miserable wretch, and we can afford to let him off cheaply, without paying old scores.”
“What do you wish to do, then?” demanded Harkaway. “I am willing to abide by the decision you may come to.”
“Well,” said Mr. Mole, “I propose that he shall be put ashore.”
“When?”
There was the rub.
They were many weary miles away from the sight of land.
“Put him ashore the first time that we come within reach of land,” suggested Harvey.
“We will,” said Harkaway, “if that is the general wish.”
“It is.”
It was put to the vote and found that everybody, without a single exception, was desirous of seeing the back of Hunston.
Who can wonder?
None.
“Well, well,” said old Jack, “that is agreed upon. And now, Emily, my dear, I hope that your mind is at rest.”
“Almost.”
“What! doesn’t that satisfy you yet?”
“For the present; but I shall be all the more satisfied when he is really out of the place altogether, for he is a regular nightmare to me.”
“You are fanciful, my dear,” said old Jack.
“Perhaps; but there have been times when you have not made so light of my presentiments,” said Emily.
As these words were spoken, the saloon door was opened and who should enter but Joe Basalt.
Now old Joe wore a face as long as a fiddle, and addressing Harkaway he requested a few words in private.
“Presently, Joe,” said Harkaway.
The old tar twisted his hat round and waited.
“What, won’t presently do for you?”
“I’d sooner out with it at once,” said Joe.
“Well, out with it,” said Harkaway.
“Before everyone, your honour?” Joe demanded.
“Yes.”
He looked shyly about him, and cast a furtive glance at the ladies before he ventured to speak out.
“I want to break it to your honour as gently as possible, and I want to know what your honour thinks of me?”
Old Jack stared.
“Why, really, Joe–”
“I think Joe wants to know if you think he’s handsome,” suggested Dick Harvey.
“Do you admire the cut of his figurehead?” chimed in young Jack.
But Joe Basalt was evidently too much upset and preoccupied by something on his mind to heed this chaff.
“No, your honour,” he said, fiercely, “what I want to know is–do you consider me a d–d mutineering swab?”
“Joe, Joe,” exclaimed Harkaway, laughing in spite of himself, “moderate your language; remember that there are ladies present.”
Joe reddened to the roots of his hair.
“I ax their pardon, every mother’s son of them,” he said, tugging at his forelock; “but my feelin’s carries me away.”
“Tell us what it is, then,” said Jefferson, “and perhaps we can offer advice.”
“Well, then, sir, I’ve been insulted.”
“I see, I see,” said Jefferson; “you have been having a row with one of your messmates.”
“And you have punched his head?” suggested young Jack.
“Serve him right, too, Joe,” said Harry Girdwood.
“No, no, young gentlemen,” said Joe, “I ain’t done that, or else I should be quite happy–that’s just it–because I wanted his honour’s permission.”
“What?”
“To give him a good licking,” urged Joe Basalt; “you see, I couldn’t well do it without, as it’s the stowaway.”
The interest of the whole of the company redoubled at this.
“He’s been at his tricks again,” said Joe.
“I thought so.”
“And d–d dirty tricks they are, too. The swab can’t do nothing fair and square and above board. He allers cruises about in a nasty, sly, piratical way.”
“What is it? Tell us at once.”
“Yes, sir, I will. Why, you see, the fact is, he has been a-sounding me about trying if the crew is satisfied with your honour.”
A low murmur went from mouth to mouth around the table.
“He’s never trying to undermine you, old fidelity!” ejaculated Harkaway.
Joe nodded.
“That’s it, your honour.”
“Villain!”
“And what’s more, he’s been trying it on with Jack Tiller.”
“He has?”
Harkaway’s brow darkened, and the expression of his face grew ominous.
“How did Jack Tiller meet his advances?” asked Harvey.
“Why, Jack ain’t got no command over himself, and so he–”
Joe paused.
“So what?”
“Why, Jack gave him one for himself; but he ain’t damaged him much,” Joe hastened to add apologetically, “for Jack Tiller knows his dooty better than that, your honour. No, he’s only put one of his toplights into mourning.”
This sent the two boys into ecstasies.
“And so you see, your honour, when he opened fire on to me, I could hardly believe it possible, until he put it plainer, and then I was so staggered that I did not know what to do, so I thought I would come and let you know.”
Harkaway, looking up, caught his wife’s glance fixed upon him.
“You see, it doesn’t do to scoff at secret apprehensions,” she said, quietly.
“No, no. This shall be seen to at once,” he answered, rising from his seat. “Come with me, Dick, and you, Jefferson.”
They left the cabin, followed by old Joe Basalt.
Now, when they got on deck, Jack Harkaway led the way to a part where they were alone, and not likely to be disturbed.
“Now, Joe,” said he, “I have been thinking this matter over. I know you have only spoken the truth, without a word of exaggeration. But we must catch the villain in his own snare.”
“How, your honour?”
“I’ll tell you. You must go back to this traitor, and you must play the part of a willing listener.”
“A what?”
“A willing listener. You must let him think you are ready to join in his villainy, do you see?”
“I do, your honour, but damme if I like it.”
“You will have to like it in this instance, Joe, for the good of us all. This man is the worst villain alive. I have forgiven him more wrongs than you would think it possible to forgive; but now the safety of all is concerned, and it must be done.”
Joe scratched his head, and looked troubled.
“If that’s orders, your honour, I’ve nothing but to obey.”
“Right, Joe.”
* * * * *
Having primed Joe Basalt up in his lesson, they marched off to Hunston’s cabin, and Joe entered, while Harkaway, Dick Harvey, and Jefferson took up a position near where they could overhear what was going on within.
“Well, shipmate,” said Basalt, “how goes it?”
Hunston was lying on his side, holding a damp towel to his damaged eye.
He only turned round, and grunted some few ungracious words.
“I’ve brought you some news,” said Joe, repeating his lesson; “there is a regular shine on deck.”
Hunston turned quickly round at this.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, anxiously. “You haven’t been saying any thing, because I’m sure you were mistaken, as–”
“As Jack Tiller was.”
“Yes.”
And Hunston fondled the blackened eye, mentally cursing Tiller and his hard, horny fist.
“Not I,” said Joe Basalt, “not I. There’s a row aloft, I told you. Three men have been put into irons, and I have got into trouble as well.”
“What for?”
“Nothing,” answered Joe Basalt, with a surly imitation of anger. “That’s just it, for nothing, and aren’t they up in the stirrups neither?”
“They are!” exclaimed Hunston.
“Rather.”
“And what do they say?”
“Say!” exclaimed Basalt. “Why, they’d as lief draw a cutlass over his weasand, as they’d smash a ship’s biscuit.”
Hunston’s pale face grew crimson at these words.
“That’s good,” he said; “they’re men of spirit.”
“That they are.”
“And the rest of the crew; what do they say of it?”
“Why, they are all up about it; all to a man. So if you have a good thing to offer, I’ll undertake to say as they’ll volunteer to a man.”
“Good.”
“And leave them Harkaway folks in the lurch here, as they deserve, the mean beasts.”
“Mean, indeed,” echoed Hunston, secretly chuckling. “Why, they’re worse than mean.”
“So you’d say if you only knew what a palaver they’ve made about having you here, pretending as it’s all charity and the like, when, of course, we know–”
“That it’s all your goodness, and that of your hot-headed comrade.”
“Don’t speak of Jack Tiller, my friend,” said Joe, who was working into his part capitally by this time; “he sees now what a fool he has made of himself.”
“Did he say so?”
“Yes.”
“Why did he go on so?”
“He quite misunderstood your meaning.”
“The deuce he did. Why, however could that be? I was pretty explicit.”
“He thought that it was to sell him. In fact, he made sure as you had overheard us grumbling together about the skipper, and that you was a-trying it on only to tell Mr. Harkaway all about it.”
“Did he say so?”
“Yes.”
“Then undeceive him immediately.”
“I have done so.”
“As for this,” added Hunston, pointing to his discoloured eye and cheek, “I think nothing of it. All I’ll ask of him is that he shall do as much for Harkaway.”
“That he will,” said Joe, with sham heartiness. “And now how soon shall the ship be ours?”
Hunston glanced anxiously towards the door.
“There’s no fear.” said Joe. answering his look; “they are all too busy for’ard, talking about them poor devils in irons.”
“Brutes!”
“Aye, that they are. But when shall we get them free from their floating prison, cos that’s what it seems a-coming to?”
“I’ll tell you,” answered Hunston, sinking his voice, “we’ll serve the Harkaway party as he served your messmates.”
“How?”
“Put them in irons.”
Joe Basalt gave a start at this.
“And if they would not go?”
“Chuck them overboard, all, everyone of them, except the women.”
“I should hardly like doing that,” said Joe.
“Then that shall be _my task_,” exclaimed Hunston, warming up as he unfolded his diabolical scheme. “I should like to do that part of it myself. I swore to finish them all off,” he added, more to himself than to Joe, “and I shall keep my oath after all, I begin to think. I’ll throw them all overboard–Harkaway, Jefferson, Harvey, all.”
He looked up suddenly at the door.
Three big forms stood upon the threshold of the cabin.
The three whose names Hunston had just uttered.
Harkaway, Jefferson, and Dick Harvey.
“I thought I heard you call us,” said the latter.
Hunston’s colour fled from his cheek.
He looked from one to the other.
Then he glanced at Joe Basalt.
Harkaway was the first to break the silence.
“Hunston.”
The sound echoed dismally, as though uttered in some bare-walled cavern.
“Yes,” he faltered, struggling to appear at his ease.
“Come.”
“Where to?”
Harkaway pointed silently to the door.
“What do you want with me?”
“Can’t you guess?”
The words were simple ones, yet they sounded like a death-knell to him.
“We have heard all; every word. This crowning act of villany and ingratitude, baser than ever entered the mind of man, has doomed you. Follow me.”
Appalled, half stunned with fear, the miserable wretch tottered after Harkaway.
Close upon his heels came Jefferson and Dick, while Joe Basalt brought up the rear.
CHAPTER XLIX.
THE TRIAL–HUNSTON’S PUNISHMENT.
“Pipe all hands on deck!”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The crew came tumbling up.
And when they were all assembled, Jefferson and Dick Harvey ranged them round in position, while Harkaway, with Hunston close by his side, stood forward to address them.
“My men,” said he, “I have had you called together upon no pleasant errand. But it is a question of duty, and, therefore, pleasant or unpleasant, must be done. What we have to do is an act of justice, and I don’t wish that anyone should be able to impugn my motives. I would not leave it in the power of any man to say that I ever behaved unjustly to my worst enemy.”
“Hurrah!”
A ringing cheer greeted Harkaway.
“Now, my men, what I have to say to you concerns my own and my family history, perhaps, more than it does you. You have all heard my poor boy’s adventures when he fell into the hands of the Greek brigands?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“You know who it was that was instrumental in getting him condemned to death.”
“It was that sneaking lubber, Hunston,” cried several voices at once.
“It was. I need not enlarge upon all he has done to merit the worst punishment it is in our power to bestow, if ever he should fall into our hands–the worst I say, eh?”
“Yes,–him!” said a voice, with a very strong expletive.
The approval of the crew was perfectly unanimous.
In vain did Hunston look about him for one of those disaffected men of whom Joe Basalt had spoken.
Not a vestige of any thing like opposition to the general sentiments did he trace in any of those weather-beaten, honest countenances.
“Well,” resumed Harkaway, “and what would you say if, after that I have forgiven him, taken him in hand and had him carefully tended and nursed, what would you say if even then he tried to wrong me–to ensnare innocent, well-meaning men, into a murderous plot against my life?”
“Why, I should say as he’s the blackest-hearted lubber ashore or afloat,” said one.
“One word more,” said Harkaway. “What should we do to this wretch if we had him here in our power?”
“Give him a round dozen, to begin with,” suggested Sam Mason.
“And then string him up.”
A cheer came from a score of throats.
“Men,” said Harkaway, “this is the villain, Hunston.”
A pause.
The men were so thoroughly taken by surprise at this that they had not a word to say for themselves.
“I was anxious to spare him,” said Harkaway, in conclusion, “for although he has always been false, treacherous, and cruel, I could not forget that he was a fellow-countryman, and that we were boys together. I would have returned good for evil, he refused it; I now mean to try evil for evil.”
The men applauded this to the echo.
Joe Basalt and his comrade Jack Tiller passed the word forward from mouth to mouth.
They told their shipmates what had taken place, and so thoroughly incensed them against him that his life would not have been worth five minutes’ purchase had Harkaway, Jefferson, and Dick Harvey absented themselves.
“Come,” said Jefferson, “it is growing late; let us settle it off-hand.”
“What is the verdict?” said Harvey, “Let the men decide.”
Their decision did not take long at arriving at. As if with a single voice, the men responded–
“Death!”
A sickening sensation stole over Hunston.
There was enough in that to appal the stoutest heart, it is true, and he now felt that it was all over.
“Very good,” said Harkaway, “His fate is with you.”
“String him up to the yardarm at once, then,” suggested Sam Mason.
“Tie him up by the heels and let’s shoot at him.”
“Let him walk the plank.”
“No; hanging is better fun. It’s a dog’s death that he has earned, so let him have his deserts.”
A rope was got and the end of it was flung over the yardarm, and a running noose made in it.
Then rough hands were laid upon the doomed man.
This aroused him into lifting his voice in his own behalf.
“Harkaway,” he said, “do you know that this is murder–cold-blooded murder?”
“So is every execution, even if sanctioned by law.”
“But it is done upon ample proof.”
“We have proof enough.”
“You haven’t a single witness against me,” said Hunston, eagerly.
“Plenty.”
“Where’s one? Let go, I tell you,” he cried frantically, at the men who were dragging him towards the rope. “This is murder; you’ll hang for it, Harkaway; you’ll–cowards! all of you upon one.”
But they did not pay much heed to his ravings.
“Do you hear, Harkaway?” he cried, “This is murder, whatever you call it. It will hang you yet; at the least, it will transport you for life.”
Harkaway smiled.
“I shall not soil my fingers in the matter.”
“It is your work!” now yelled Hunston, struggling with mad desperation.
“Then we’ll all have a hand in it,” said Harkaway; “we’ll all pull together, so that no one can fix it upon his fellow–”
“You’ll not escape,” yelled the miserable wretch. “You’ll swing for it yourself; you will, I swear. You have no witnesses; these two sailors are notorious liars.”
“Take that, you swab,” cried Joe Basalt, dashing his fist in his face.
“They are greater curs than yourself,” yelled Hunston; “such witnesses would swear away your own life for a glass of grog–witnesses indeed–”
He stopped short.
His glance fell upon two forms standing close by–young Jack and Harry Girdwood.
Both were dressed as he had last seen them in the mountain haunt of the brigands.
Hunston was still in ignorance of the rescue of the boys.
For all he knew, their bodies were rotting in their mountain grave in Greece.
They bent upon him the same sad and stern look which had been so efficacious before, and he cowered before them.
Appalled at the horrible phantoms come to mock him at his last moments, he clapped his hand to his eyes in the vain endeavour to shut out the sight.
Vain, indeed, for the sight possessed a horrible fascination for him, which no pen can describe.
“Down, and beg for mercy,” said young Jack, solemnly.
“On your knees, wretch!” added Harry Girdwood.
“Hah!”
The two boys pointed together to the feet of Harkaway senior.
The condemned man caught at their meaning at once.
A wild cry of hope came from his lips, and he burst from the sailors who held him and threw himself at Harkaway’s feet.
“Mercy, mercy, Harkaway!” he cried, piteously. “Have mercy, for the love of Heaven, as you hope for mercy yourself hereafter.”
Harkaway gazed on him in silence.
“Look there,” cried Hunston, wildly, pointing to where the two boys stood still in contemplation of the scene, “Look there; see, they are begging for mercy for me.”
“Who? Where?” demanded Harkaway, in considerable astonishment
“Your own son, your own boy; don’t you see him?” pursued Hunston, wildly,
“Look. No–It is my own fancy, my fear-stricken mind, which conjures up these horrible visions. Ugh!”
And he cowered down at Harkaway’s feet with averted glance, endeavouring to shut out the fearsome sight.
“Take him away,” said Harkaway to the men.
They advanced and laid hands upon him, but Hunston fought madly with them and clung to Harkaway’s knees in desperation.
It was his last chance, he felt positive.
“Think, Harkaway, think,” he cried again and again. “Remember our boyhood’s days; remember our youth, passed at school together. We were college chums, and–”
“No; not quite,” interrupted Dick Harvey in disgust. “We were at Oxford together, but never chums.”
“You were never the sort of man that one would care to chum with,” added Harkaway.
“Never!”
“Take him away.”
Hunston gave a loud yell of despair, and gazed around him.
Again his glance was riveted by the sight of the two boys standing in the same attitude, and then horror-stricken, appalled, he sank upon the ground all of a heap and half fainting.
A miserable, a piteous object indeed.
* * * * *
“Hunston,” said Harkaway, after a few minutes’ pause, “you bade me think. It is my turn to bid you think. If your white-livered fears had not blinded your judgment, you would have known that your life is safe here.”
Hunston raised his head slowly.
He gazed about him with the same vacant look, utterly Unable to realise the meaning of Harkaway’s words.
“You jest,” he faltered.
“We are not butchers,” said Jefferson, sternly.
Humbled, degraded, though he was, these words of hope sent the blood coursing through his veins wildly.
Saved!
Was it possible?
Young Jack stepped out of the circle and approached the miserable wretch.
“When we last stood face to face, and when you ordered the Greek brigands to fire on us, Hunston, I told you that this would come about.”
Hunston shrank affrightedly before the lad.
“I told you, Hunston,” continued young Jack, “that the time would come when you would grovel in the dirt and beg your life from my father. That time has come, you see. Like the miserable cur that you are, you grovel and beg and pray in a way that I would never condescend to do to you. You have tasted all the horrors of anticipation, and that is worse than death itself. Now, perhaps, you know what I and my comrade Harry felt when you condemned us to death.”
“We told you,” added Harry Girdwood quietly, “that it would come home to you; it has.”
During the foregoing, Hunston began to realise the truth.
They lived.
“Get up,” said Jefferson; “it is time to end this sickening scene.”
Hunston slowly rose to his feet
“Excuse me,” said the captain, stepping forward, “but as captain of this ship–under your orders, Mr, Harkaway, of course–I can’t see how it is possible to allow his offence to go unpunished. You are of course at liberty to forgive him for any wrong he may have done you all, but with all due deference I must set my face against winking at such offences as he has committed on board this ship.”
“Listen to the skipper,” added another of the crew.
“To let him off scot free would be to encourage insubordination and mutiny, in fact.”
“Then I leave it to you, captain,” said Harkaway; “I shall not interfere in your management of the ship.”
Hunston’s heart sank.
“Get rid of him at once,” suggested Harvey.
“How?”
“Lower him in a boat; provision it for a month and set him adrift.”
“Good.”
“Do that,” said Hunston, “and you consign me to a living death, worse than any tortures that savages could inflict.” He remembered too well how he and Toro the Italian had been cast adrift from the “Flowery Land.”
He had not forgotten the horrors of that cruise.
It was, in truth, as he said, ten times more horrible than death at their hands could be.
“My own opinion is,” said the captain, “that his crime should be punished at once; such a crime should not be allowed to pass on board ship.”
“What would you do?”
“Tie him up to a grating and give him four dozen lashes.”
A wild storm of cheering greeted this proposal.
There was some feeble attempt at opposition upon the part of the Harkaway party, but this was overruled by the captain and crew.
“I’m not a cruel man, gentlemen,” said the captain, “but I must side with the crew in this. Now, we’ll give him every chance. I propose to let him off if there is a single voice raised in his favour.”
Not a word was spoken.
“If any of you think, my men, that he should not be punished, he shall escape. Let any man stand forth and it shall settle it. I will allow him to escape and not question the motives of whosoever speaks for him.”
Hunston looked anxiously around him.
Not a voice.
Not so much as a glance of pity did he encounter there.
His only hope was in the man that he had most wronged of all there present, and so in despair he turned to Harkaway.
But the latter moved away from the spot in silence.
Despair.
Rough, horny hands were laid upon him, and his coat and shirt were torn in shreds from his back until he stood stripped to the waist.
The grating was rigged for punishment, and the culprit was lashed securely to it.
“Barclay.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stand forward.”
“Here, sir.”
“Take the cat.”
“Yes, sir.”
This was the youngest boy in the ship. The lad took the whip and poised it in his hand eager to begin operations.
“Joe Basalt.”
“Yes, your honour.”
“Time the strokes.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The boy Barclay now received his instructions, and noted the same most diligently.
“Strike well up, not too low. You understand, well across the shoulders.”
“Yes, cap’n,”
“And don’t be too eager or too quick. Let each stroke tell its own tale.”
What were the miserable man’s feelings when he heard his torture prepared thus, with such coolness and deliberation, we leave you to imagine.
A momentary pause then occurred, during which every one present looked on with mixed sensations of eagerness and dread.
“One!”
A whizzing noise.
Then a dull, heavy thud, as the thongs came in contact with the culprit’s back and shoulders.
A gasp came from the spectators, a convulsive shudder from the suffering wretch himself.
And then his shoulders showed a series of livid ridges of bruised flesh.
“Two.”
Down came the lash.
The blood shot forth from the right shoulder, where there was more flesh to encounter the cruel whip.
“Three.”
A moan of utter anguish burst from the victim, whose blood streamed down his back.
A sickening, horrible sight to contemplate.
“Four.”
“Hah!”
“Come away,” exclaimed Harkaway; “come away from this. It makes me sick and faint.”
“Yes,” said Jefferson; “it is not to my taste.”
“Nor mine.”
“Nor mine,” said Dick.
“This may be Justice, my friend,” said Jack Harkaway “but it isn’t English–it is not humanity.”
“Five.”
A cry came from the prisoner.
“Cast him loose!” cried Harkaway, “No more–no more!”
But the sailors did not appear to hear.
“Six.”
“Have done, I say!” thundered Jefferson. “Enough of this!”
“Excuse me, sir,” said the captain, “we have a duty to perform. I can understand that it is not pleasant to you, but–”
“Seven,” sang out Joe Basalt, drowning every voice.
Down came the whip again.
And as the thongs struck the lacerated flesh of the wretched man he gave a piercing shriek.
It sounded more like the cry of some wild animal than the utterance of a human being.
“Eight.”
“Fetch the doctor,” exclaimed Harkaway.
Young Jack, who was secretly glad of an excuse to begone, ran off and brought the doctor up from below.
“Doctor Anderson,” said Harkaway hurriedly, “I believe sincerely that this man has earned all he has had and a great deal more.”
“Indeed he has,” said Doctor Anderson.
“But I can’t endure the lash. It is savage, it is unworthy of a civilised people–it must not go on. Stop it.”
“How many has he had?”
The answer to this came at that identical moment from Joe Basalt’s lips.
“Twelve.”
As the lash came down, the body shook slightly, and then was quite still.
“Say that he can bear no more,” said Harkaway. “They’ll heed your report as the doctor.”
“I shall only say the truth,” said the doctor.
“You think so?”
“Of course. He has fainted. You’ll kill him if you go on. Cast him loose, carry him to his berth.”
CHAPTER L.
MR. MOLE’S TROUBLES AGAIN–AN ADVENTURE WITH NERO–LAND HO!– THE FIRST VIEW OF AUSTRALIA.
Let us draw the curtain.
The particulars given in the preceding chapter must be as unpleasant to the readers as they were to Harkaway, to Jefferson, to Dick Harvey, and beyond all to Harry Girdwood and young Jack.
They are not agreeable matters to relate, and we gladly draw the veil upon such a scene.
Once in the care of Doctor Anderson, the prisoner was tended carefully, and the doctor’s best skill was employed in bringing him back to health.
But his convalescence was a long time in being brought about, for not only was he cruelly maimed, but, to use the doctor’s own expression–
“The scourge had knocked him to bits in health generally.”
* * * * *
“What a capital sailor old Nero makes, Harry.”
“Splendid.”
“He only wants to know how to chew.”
“And take grog like old Mole.”
“True, and then he’d be an out-and-out sailor.”
These words were part of a conversation which our two young comrades were indulging in one afternoon towards sun-down as they walked to and fro on deck.
They had rigged Nero out in full nautical costume, and taught him several sailor tricks of manner.
He hitched up his inexpressibles with a jerk that the late T. P. Cooke might have made studies from.
And his bow and scrape, although more like a stage sailor than the real thing itself, were ticked off so admirably, that you expected him to start off into a rattling hornpipe.
But perhaps the greatest treat of all was to see him pretending to take observations through a telescope.
“Nero,” cried young Jack.
The monkey ran up at the word.
“Give us your arm, Nero.”
And so drawing a paw under each of their arms, they promenaded the deck, these three young monkeys together, to the great amusement and delight of the sailors generally.
“Why, Joe!” said Sam Mason, “he looks as great a swell as the port admiral.”
“Port admiral! As the first lord himself.”
“Do you know, Joe, that Billy Longbow had a monkey once as would–”
“Now for a yarn.”
“No, this is a born fact,” persisted Sam Mason, stoutly. “Billy Longbow had a monkey on board ship as used to mock the bos’en, and one day when he see the bos’en take out his rattan to larrup one of the powder monkeys, Jocko went for to give the bos’en one for hisself.”
“By way of protecting one of his own species, I s’pose,” suggested Joe.
“Perhaps. Well, he felt in all his pockets for a rattan, and he happened to get hold of the tip of his tail. Now he seed the bos’en lugging hard to get the rattan out of his pocket, for it had got entangled with the lanyard of his jack-knife, and so Jocko tugs precious hard at his tail, presuming it to be a rattan likewise, I s’pose, and, by Jove, if he doesn’t pull it right out.”
“Come, now,” cried Joe Basalt, with a grunt, “I ain’t agoing to swaller that tale.”
“It’s a fact. Billy Longbow was the most truthful pal I ever had–out came his nether rattan.”
“Well, what next?”
“Nothing next,” answered Sam Mason, with a sly look. “That was the end of Jocko’s tail, and it’s the end of mine too.”
Now while they were engaged in listening to Sam Mason’s Billy Longbow anecdote, they saw Mr. Mole come out of the deck saloon, where he had been dozing.
He walked up the deck with a certain apparent unsteadiness of gait.
“Old Mole is half seas over,” said Harry Girdwood.
“I’ll tell you what. Wouldn’t it be a lark if we could get him to strut up and down with Nero, without knowing it?”
“That’s more easily said than done, I imagine.”
“Wait and see.”
They crept back out of sight as Mr. Mole passed along. Then, having made a hurried whispered consultation, young Jack stepped forth alone and tackled Mr. Mole.
“Taking the air, sir?”
“Yes, Jack–hiccup–yes, my dear boy, and I have come to look out for land.”
“Land?”
“Yes.”
“Are we near?”
“Sho–sho–I mean so–I shpose–s’pose–”
Mr. Mole was conscious of his speech being a little bit thick, and he hastened to add that he was suffering from toothache.
“My mouth ish sho shwollen–swollen, I mean–that I can hardly sp– speak plainly,” he said.
“Dear me! how shocking!” exclaimed young Jack.
Slipping his arm under Mr. Mole’s they walked up and down talking.
Meanwhile, young Jack tipped the wink to Harry Girdwood, who slipped out of his hiding-place with Nero, and followed Mole and Jack along the deck.
Young Jack chose his opportunity well, and drawing his arm out of Mr. Mole’s he pushed Nero’s in its place.
Mr. Mole, all unconscious of the change in his companion, strutted along, chattering away, secretly pleased at having such an excellent listener by his side.
“It’sh really pleasure to talk to you, my dear boy,” he said.
“You un–stand with half a word–and I enjoy–a conservation–conserva –singular thing–I can’t say conservashun. I enjoy–a talk–an intellectshul chat more with you than sitting down to wine with Jeffershon and Harvey, and your dear father. Good fellarsh–jolly good fellarsh–only too fond of sitting over wine. Shocking habit–shpending hours in getting tipshy–hiccup!”
* * * * *
Now, while Mr. Mole poured out his philosophical reflections into Nero’s ear, Harry Gridwood went and fetched Harvey; old Jack and Jefferson.
Young Jack stepped back to the door of the deck saloon, and sat down while Mole turned round and hobbled up the deck again, with Nero still leaning upon his arm.
As the old gentleman came up to where they all stood, they could hear him still laying down the law to Nero.
“Yesh, Jack, my dear boy,” he was saying, “wine’sh a jolly good thing– to be ushed and not abushed. Blow my toothache–toothache–so very dericulous–don’t know what I’m shaying.”
Mr. Mole winked and blinked like an owl in daylight.
“Jack.”
“Sir.”
“Whash the devil–Jack!”
He started in utter amazement.
“Yes, sir.”
“Why, Mr. Mole,” said Harvey, suddenly popping out of the cabin, followed by Jefferson and old Jack, “what on earth are you walking up and down with him for?”
“Who?”
Before another word could be spoken, Nero, on a secret sign from his young master, took off his tarpaulin hat, and dabbed it on Mr. Mole’s head.
Mole turned suddenly round upon his companion.
“Nero–the devil fly away with you, you beast!”
He made a dash at the monkey; but the latter was up in the shrouds and out of danger in the twingling of an eye.
* * * * *
“Land ho!”
“Which way?”
“Due south.”
Harkaway had a glass up in a crack.
“That’s right,” he said. “Gentlemen all, allow me to introduce you to Australia.”
CHAPTER LI.
HUNSTON IS DISPOSED OF.
Yes, there was the continent of Australia.
The ladies came running up on deck at the news, for the first sight of land after a long voyage is a thing to make your heart beat, however much you like the sea.
“I can’t see anything yet,” said little Emily, after peering vainly through a telescope for five minutes.
“Because you don’t get the proper focus,” explained young Jack.
“Then you fix it for me, since you are so clever,” retorted the young lady.
“That’s an Irish remedy,” laughed young Jack.
However, he helped her to fix upon the focus, and then she had the gratification of seeing the land.
It was a beautiful verdure-clad range of hills that they had first perceived from the distance, which were half a mile or more inland.
So that they found themselves presently much nearer land than they had supposed.
It was covered with wild luxuriant vegetation, but it was altogether uncultivated.
“Harkaway,” said Jefferson, as they stood together contemplating the scene, “this is where Hunston must be dropped ashore.”
Harkaway thought it over for a few moments.
“Yes, Jefferson,” he said, presently, “I think you are right, this will do. He can’t well starve here, and it will be better than dropping him amongst the civilised people.”
A boat was manned, and provisioned, and lowered.
Then Hunston was brought up from below.
His face had never changed since the first moment that he had recovered from the great shock of the flogging he had received.
Apparently there was some fixed purpose in his mind now that it would take much to uproot.
He never said a word when they came to fetch him.
He was not a little anxious to know all about it, but such was his pride that he would have perished sooner than breathe a word.
As he was lowered into the boat, Harkaway just gave him to understand what he was going to do in a few hurriedly-chosen words.
“We are going to put you ashore here, Hunston; not that you have any right to expect the least consideration at our hands, but we do not wish to have it on our consciences that you have been badly treated by us. You will be left here, far away from any human habitation, where you can do no harm, at least, for some time to come. We shall leave you these provisions, but we have no arms or ammunition to give you.”
Hunston listened silently–impassively to these words.
Not the slightest change in the expression of his countenance indicated that he heard the words which been addressed to him.
“You are going, and our ways through the rest of our lives may be widely separated. We may never meet again. It will be some gratification to you to know that you have once more most keenly disappointed me–that I would have given much to see the least signs of repentance in you–that the greatest delight would have been for me to say to myself ‘At least I have conquered the evil in that man’s nature by showing him a good return for his vicious acts, and turned a bitter enemy into a friend,’ but that was a forlorn hope. May you live to repent your evil courses.”
Hunston turned.
Not a word escaped him.
The boat pulled off from the vessel, and in the same sullen silence he was landed with his rations.
There were forty pounds of hard biscuits, a good twenty pounds of salt beef, besides rice, flour, a jar of water, and other matters which might be necessary, should he fail to fall in with the means of getting food and drink for some considerable time.
But when that was gone he might starve.
THE END.