Chapter Twenty Seven.

Chapter Twenty Seven.On the Casquettes.Bob’s hearing was not at fault, this sense of his remaining perfect though his mind was wandering; and so, the unwonted sound that fell upon his ear had got woven amongst his delirious fancies.It was, without doubt, a real bell, which if it might not summon pious folk to prayer, yet fulfilled almost as sacred a duty, warning, as it did, poor mariners of impending peril and so answering the petition oft put up “for those travelling by sea.”This ball belonged to the lighthouse-tower erected on the highest peak of the Casquettes, a terrible group of rocks jutting out into the Channel, just off the French coast hard by Alderney, some six miles to the north-west of which island they lie. Rocks that are cruel and relentless as the surges that sweep over them in stormy weather, and which are so quaintly named from their helmet, or “casque”-like resemblance—rocks, concerning which the poet Swinburne has sung in his eloquent verse, that breathes the very spirit of the sea in depicting the strife of the elements:“From the depths of the waters that lighten and darken,With change everlasting of life and of death,Where hardly by morn if the lulled ear hearkenIt hears the sea’s as a tired child’s breath,Where hardly by night, if an eye dare scan it,The storm lets shipwreck be seen or heard,As the reefs to the waves and the foam to the graniteRespond one merciless word.“Sheer seen and far, in the sea’s life heaven,A sea-mew’s flight from the wild sweet land,White plumed with foam, if the wind wake, sevenBlack helms, as of warriors that stir, not stand,From the depths that abide and the waves that environSeven rocks rear heads that the midnight masks;And the strokes of the swords of the storm are as ironOn the steel of the wave-worn casques.“Be night’s dark word as the word of a wizard,Be the word of dawn as a god’s glad word,Like heads of the spirits of darkness visoredThat see not for ever, nor ever have heard,These basnets, plumed as for fight or plumeless,Crowned by the storm and by storm discrowned,Keep word of the lists where the dead lie tomblessAnd the tale of them is not found!”Hither the boat had drifted in the course of the three days that had elapsed since she had been first becalmed off Spithead, or rather between the Nab and Warner lights; for, it was then that the wind had dropped, leaving her at the mercy of the stream, going whither the current willed.She had pursued a most erratic course, however, to reach this point.To commence with, she had floated on the ebb-tide, which for two hours after high-water runs south by west, out into the Channel past the Isle of Wight; the wind, slight as it was, that subsequently sprung up from the eastward, to which point it had veered after the sea-fog had risen, combined with the westward action of the tideway, making the little vessel take almost a straight course across the stream of the current towards the French coast.When about midway, however, she got into a second channel current, which swept her nearer and nearer to Cape La Hogue.Then, again, when still some miles out from the land, yet another current took charge of her, bringing her within the influence of the strong indraught which runs into the Gulf of Saint Malo; by which, finally, she was wafted, in a circular way, up to “the Caskets,” or “Casquettes,” to adopt the proper French version.Here she had arrived at the time of Bob’s delirium, drifting in closer and closer to the rocks, on which the cutter would probably have been dashed to pieces and her fragments possibly picked up anon on the opposite side of the Atlantic, had not fate intervened.It was in this wise.The little cutter drifted in near the rocks while it was still early morning; and the reason for the bell on the lighthouse ringing was because some of the mist, or fog, that had been blown across the Channel, yet lingered in the vicinity, as if loth to leave altogether the waters over which it loved to brood.When, however, the rays of the bright morning sun sent this nightmare of a mist to the right-about, a small French fishing lugger might have been seen working out towards the offing from Saint Malo, giving the “Casquettes” a pretty wide berth you may be sure; those who have to do with seafaring matters across Channel knowing full well of the dangerous race that runs by the fatal rocks, ever seeking in its malice to engulph passing crafts and bear them away to destruction!Two men were in the lugger; one, as usual, attending to the helm, the other minding the sheets and sitting midway between the bows and stern of the vessel, so as to be handy when required and thus save unnecessary locomotion.Sailors, it may here be mentioned in confidence, especially those hailing from la belle France, never give themselves more trouble than they can help; which philosophic way of going through life might be studied to advantage, perhaps, by some shore folk!These mariners, consequently, were taking it very easy, the one forward sitting on the break of the “fo’c’s’le” and smoking a pipe, there not being much to do in the rope-hauling or letting go, as the lugger was only creeping lazily along through the almost still water with the aid of the light breeze then blowing.Presently, this latter gentleman, casting a casual eye around, spied the poor mastless, derelict-looking little yacht, rolling about in the heavy tide-race that was taking her on to the rocks.Instantly, sailor-like, he became all animation; taking his pipe out of his mouth and shouting out to his fellow-voyager astern with much gesticulation.“Tiens, Jacques!” he cried, “voilà un bâteau qui courre sur les brisants!”“Quoi?” carelessly asked the other. “Vous moquez vous!”But the one who had first spoken repeated what he’d said, to the effect that there was “a boat drifting on the rocks, and likely to be wrecked.” “Jacques,” however, as his comrade had called him, did not seem much interested in the matter, merely shrugging his shoulders, implying that it was “none of his concern.”“C’est bien,” said he. “Pas mon affaire.”The other, though, seemed more taken with the little craft, climbing up a couple of steps into the rigging in order to have a better look at her.He had not gazed a moment when his excitement became intensified.“Mon Dieu, Jacques!” he sang out. “Il-y-a quelqu’un à bord! Deux personnes, et des garçons je crois; mais, ils sont morts!”“Pas possible,” cried the helmsman, showing a little more interest. “Really?”“Parbleu, c’est vrai! Vire que nous nous en approchions.”“C’est fait,” exclaimed Jacques, now quite as much excited - as the other, and eager to rescue any one in peril or distress, as every sailor of every nationality always is—that is, a true sailor. “Starboard it is!”“Babord!” cried out Antoine, as the helmsman called him, telling the latter he was to put the tiller over. “Port.”Jacques replied by a counter order.“Toi, Antoine,” shouted he, “lache la grande voile!” meaning him to “slacken off the mainsheets,” whereupon the lugger was brought alongside the wreck of the cutter.Our friend Antoine, without wasting a moment, at once stepped on board, exclaiming, “Tenez bon dessus—Hold on.”The man was shocked at what he saw, the dead bodies, as he thought, of Bob and Dick lying across each other on the floor of the little cabin, half in and half out of which the boys were exposed to his view at the first glance.“Pauvres garçons!” he cried in a husky voice, wiping away a tear that sprang unbidden to his eye, with the characteristic ready emotional sympathy of his countrymen. “Pauvres garçons.”Jacques, who was a little longer in coming to inspect the derelict, hearing what his companion said, called out for further information.“De quel pays sont-ils?” he asked. “Can you tell their nationality?”“Anglais, sans doute!” was his reply. “Je le crois par leur air.”This made Jacques prick up his ears.“Comment?” said he; and, without waiting to hear anything else he, too, jumped down into the boat. “Anglais? Mon Dieu!”Jacques was a man of common-sense; so, instead of contenting himself with staring at the apparently lifeless boys, as Antoine did, he bent down to see whether they yet breathed.“Bête! Quant aux enfants, ils ne sont pas plus morts quetoi ou moi!” he sang out indignantly. “You fool! The boys are no more dead than you or me.”But Jacques was a kind-hearted man as well as one possessed of common-sense.So, under his directions, he and Antoine between them transshipped the apparently lifeless but still animate forms of Bob and Dick from the wrecked cutter into the fo’c’s’le of the lugger, where a charcoal, fire was smouldering in a small stove on which simmered a saucepan containing something savoury, judging by its smell.Here Jacques proceeded to rub the bodies of the boys alternately with a piece of flannel dipped in spirit, which he first held in front of the stove to warm; Maître Antoine, meanwhile, attending to the navigation of the lugger and guarding lest she should run upon the Casquettes, or get led astray out of her course by Alderney Race, a current of these regions which, like the Saint Malo stream, is not to be played with when the wind’s on shore!Not content with merely rubbing them down with the spirit, Jacques presently varied his external application of some brandy, a remedy with him for most complaints to which flesh is heir, by administering to each boy in turn a few drops internally of the spirit, forcing it dexterously between their lips as soon as respiration was restored and they began to breathe with some regularity; Bob, however, progressing much more rapidly than Dick, whose pulse obstinately remained feeble and barely perceptible, while the author of all the mischief was nearly all right.Bob opened his eyes almost as soon as he tasted the brandy.“Where am I?” he stammered out, gazing round the little fo’c’s’le of the lugger in wonder. “Where am I?”

Bob’s hearing was not at fault, this sense of his remaining perfect though his mind was wandering; and so, the unwonted sound that fell upon his ear had got woven amongst his delirious fancies.

It was, without doubt, a real bell, which if it might not summon pious folk to prayer, yet fulfilled almost as sacred a duty, warning, as it did, poor mariners of impending peril and so answering the petition oft put up “for those travelling by sea.”

This ball belonged to the lighthouse-tower erected on the highest peak of the Casquettes, a terrible group of rocks jutting out into the Channel, just off the French coast hard by Alderney, some six miles to the north-west of which island they lie. Rocks that are cruel and relentless as the surges that sweep over them in stormy weather, and which are so quaintly named from their helmet, or “casque”-like resemblance—rocks, concerning which the poet Swinburne has sung in his eloquent verse, that breathes the very spirit of the sea in depicting the strife of the elements:

“From the depths of the waters that lighten and darken,With change everlasting of life and of death,Where hardly by morn if the lulled ear hearkenIt hears the sea’s as a tired child’s breath,Where hardly by night, if an eye dare scan it,The storm lets shipwreck be seen or heard,As the reefs to the waves and the foam to the graniteRespond one merciless word.“Sheer seen and far, in the sea’s life heaven,A sea-mew’s flight from the wild sweet land,White plumed with foam, if the wind wake, sevenBlack helms, as of warriors that stir, not stand,From the depths that abide and the waves that environSeven rocks rear heads that the midnight masks;And the strokes of the swords of the storm are as ironOn the steel of the wave-worn casques.“Be night’s dark word as the word of a wizard,Be the word of dawn as a god’s glad word,Like heads of the spirits of darkness visoredThat see not for ever, nor ever have heard,These basnets, plumed as for fight or plumeless,Crowned by the storm and by storm discrowned,Keep word of the lists where the dead lie tomblessAnd the tale of them is not found!”

Hither the boat had drifted in the course of the three days that had elapsed since she had been first becalmed off Spithead, or rather between the Nab and Warner lights; for, it was then that the wind had dropped, leaving her at the mercy of the stream, going whither the current willed.

She had pursued a most erratic course, however, to reach this point.

To commence with, she had floated on the ebb-tide, which for two hours after high-water runs south by west, out into the Channel past the Isle of Wight; the wind, slight as it was, that subsequently sprung up from the eastward, to which point it had veered after the sea-fog had risen, combined with the westward action of the tideway, making the little vessel take almost a straight course across the stream of the current towards the French coast.

When about midway, however, she got into a second channel current, which swept her nearer and nearer to Cape La Hogue.

Then, again, when still some miles out from the land, yet another current took charge of her, bringing her within the influence of the strong indraught which runs into the Gulf of Saint Malo; by which, finally, she was wafted, in a circular way, up to “the Caskets,” or “Casquettes,” to adopt the proper French version.

Here she had arrived at the time of Bob’s delirium, drifting in closer and closer to the rocks, on which the cutter would probably have been dashed to pieces and her fragments possibly picked up anon on the opposite side of the Atlantic, had not fate intervened.

It was in this wise.

The little cutter drifted in near the rocks while it was still early morning; and the reason for the bell on the lighthouse ringing was because some of the mist, or fog, that had been blown across the Channel, yet lingered in the vicinity, as if loth to leave altogether the waters over which it loved to brood.

When, however, the rays of the bright morning sun sent this nightmare of a mist to the right-about, a small French fishing lugger might have been seen working out towards the offing from Saint Malo, giving the “Casquettes” a pretty wide berth you may be sure; those who have to do with seafaring matters across Channel knowing full well of the dangerous race that runs by the fatal rocks, ever seeking in its malice to engulph passing crafts and bear them away to destruction!

Two men were in the lugger; one, as usual, attending to the helm, the other minding the sheets and sitting midway between the bows and stern of the vessel, so as to be handy when required and thus save unnecessary locomotion.

Sailors, it may here be mentioned in confidence, especially those hailing from la belle France, never give themselves more trouble than they can help; which philosophic way of going through life might be studied to advantage, perhaps, by some shore folk!

These mariners, consequently, were taking it very easy, the one forward sitting on the break of the “fo’c’s’le” and smoking a pipe, there not being much to do in the rope-hauling or letting go, as the lugger was only creeping lazily along through the almost still water with the aid of the light breeze then blowing.

Presently, this latter gentleman, casting a casual eye around, spied the poor mastless, derelict-looking little yacht, rolling about in the heavy tide-race that was taking her on to the rocks.

Instantly, sailor-like, he became all animation; taking his pipe out of his mouth and shouting out to his fellow-voyager astern with much gesticulation.

“Tiens, Jacques!” he cried, “voilà un bâteau qui courre sur les brisants!”

“Quoi?” carelessly asked the other. “Vous moquez vous!”

But the one who had first spoken repeated what he’d said, to the effect that there was “a boat drifting on the rocks, and likely to be wrecked.” “Jacques,” however, as his comrade had called him, did not seem much interested in the matter, merely shrugging his shoulders, implying that it was “none of his concern.”

“C’est bien,” said he. “Pas mon affaire.”

The other, though, seemed more taken with the little craft, climbing up a couple of steps into the rigging in order to have a better look at her.

He had not gazed a moment when his excitement became intensified.

“Mon Dieu, Jacques!” he sang out. “Il-y-a quelqu’un à bord! Deux personnes, et des garçons je crois; mais, ils sont morts!”

“Pas possible,” cried the helmsman, showing a little more interest. “Really?”

“Parbleu, c’est vrai! Vire que nous nous en approchions.”

“C’est fait,” exclaimed Jacques, now quite as much excited - as the other, and eager to rescue any one in peril or distress, as every sailor of every nationality always is—that is, a true sailor. “Starboard it is!”

“Babord!” cried out Antoine, as the helmsman called him, telling the latter he was to put the tiller over. “Port.”

Jacques replied by a counter order.

“Toi, Antoine,” shouted he, “lache la grande voile!” meaning him to “slacken off the mainsheets,” whereupon the lugger was brought alongside the wreck of the cutter.

Our friend Antoine, without wasting a moment, at once stepped on board, exclaiming, “Tenez bon dessus—Hold on.”

The man was shocked at what he saw, the dead bodies, as he thought, of Bob and Dick lying across each other on the floor of the little cabin, half in and half out of which the boys were exposed to his view at the first glance.

“Pauvres garçons!” he cried in a husky voice, wiping away a tear that sprang unbidden to his eye, with the characteristic ready emotional sympathy of his countrymen. “Pauvres garçons.”

Jacques, who was a little longer in coming to inspect the derelict, hearing what his companion said, called out for further information.

“De quel pays sont-ils?” he asked. “Can you tell their nationality?”

“Anglais, sans doute!” was his reply. “Je le crois par leur air.”

This made Jacques prick up his ears.

“Comment?” said he; and, without waiting to hear anything else he, too, jumped down into the boat. “Anglais? Mon Dieu!”

Jacques was a man of common-sense; so, instead of contenting himself with staring at the apparently lifeless boys, as Antoine did, he bent down to see whether they yet breathed.

“Bête! Quant aux enfants, ils ne sont pas plus morts quetoi ou moi!” he sang out indignantly. “You fool! The boys are no more dead than you or me.”

But Jacques was a kind-hearted man as well as one possessed of common-sense.

So, under his directions, he and Antoine between them transshipped the apparently lifeless but still animate forms of Bob and Dick from the wrecked cutter into the fo’c’s’le of the lugger, where a charcoal, fire was smouldering in a small stove on which simmered a saucepan containing something savoury, judging by its smell.

Here Jacques proceeded to rub the bodies of the boys alternately with a piece of flannel dipped in spirit, which he first held in front of the stove to warm; Maître Antoine, meanwhile, attending to the navigation of the lugger and guarding lest she should run upon the Casquettes, or get led astray out of her course by Alderney Race, a current of these regions which, like the Saint Malo stream, is not to be played with when the wind’s on shore!

Not content with merely rubbing them down with the spirit, Jacques presently varied his external application of some brandy, a remedy with him for most complaints to which flesh is heir, by administering to each boy in turn a few drops internally of the spirit, forcing it dexterously between their lips as soon as respiration was restored and they began to breathe with some regularity; Bob, however, progressing much more rapidly than Dick, whose pulse obstinately remained feeble and barely perceptible, while the author of all the mischief was nearly all right.

Bob opened his eyes almost as soon as he tasted the brandy.

“Where am I?” he stammered out, gazing round the little fo’c’s’le of the lugger in wonder. “Where am I?”

Chapter Twenty Eight.Jim Craddock.“Ah, le petit bon homme vit encore!” cried Antoine, hearing the voice and bending over from his seat on the after-thwart, being anxious as to the condition of the patients to whom Jacques was ministering. “Donnez lui encore d’eau de vie, mon ami!”Jacques thereupon repeated the dose of brandy to Bob, who closed his eyes again and leant back, the spirit and the sound of the strange language, with the queer surroundings that had met his gaze on looking round the fo’c’s’le of the lugger, making him believe he was still in a dream.“Where am I?” he presently repeated, rousing up again. “Where am I?”“In France,” replied Jacques in English as good as his own, smiling as he spoke. “At least, you’re aboard a French vessel; and, that’s as good as being in France!”“But, you are English,” replied Bob freely. “You are English, eh?”“Yes, I’m English,” answered the other. “But, you had better not talk now. Wait till after you’ve taken some nice soup which I’ve got cooking here that will put new strength into you, and then we’ll tell each other all about ourselves.”He then left Bob to attend to Dick, whom it took considerably longer to bring round; although by administering a few drops of brandy at intervals, varied by an occasional spoonful every now and then of the savoury soup from the saucepan on the fire, which was really a regular French stew, Dick became ultimately, as Bob already was through the same regimen, much better—the poor boy now recovering his consciousness and being able to speak.The two invalids were then put to bed comfortably in a couple of bunks on either side of the fo’c’s’le; while the lugger, whose name, by the way, was theJeanne d’Arc, reached over towards the English coast, to see what fishing she could get in those prohibited waters.Late in the afternoon, Bob and Dick both woke up refreshed; when, each had another jorum of the savoury soup, which Bob said subsequently was the nicest thing, he believed, he had ever tasted in his life! The boys, then, feeling quite well, so to speak, went on to tell the kind sailors all about their adventures, Bob, of course, being the principal spokesman.“Ah!” observed Jacques. “You are living at Portsmouth, then?”“No, I’ve only been stopping there for the season,” replied Bob. “But, I like it very much!”“It’s my native place, sir. I was born there!” cried Jacques. “My father was in the English navy; and my old mother, who is yet alive, has a house of her own in the town! It’s only through my having married a French wife that has took me over here along with the Parlyvoos!”“How strange!” exclaimed Bob. “Why, we went to see only the other day a Mrs Craddock, who has a daughter who’s very ill, that my aunt Polly goes to see; and she told us she had a son married to a French girl and he was living at Saint Malo!”“Why, that’s me!” cried Jacques; although “Jacques” no longer to us. “I’m Jim Craddock, and the old lady that you saw is my mother! My word! this is a rum start!”After the curious coincidence of Bob and Dick being rescued by the son of “the old egg-woman,” as they always called her, between whom and themselves Rover had in the original instance scraped an acquaintance, nothing would content Jim Craddock but that he must bear up at once for Portsmouth, and restore Bob and Dick to those who bewailed them as lost, as well as return the battered little yacht, which the lugger had in tow astern, to her proper owner.The meeting between Bob and his parents is too sacred a matter to touch upon here; but, it is easy enough to imagine the delight of those welcoming one coming back to them as it were from the dead; Dick, too, being received like another son.As for Nellie, her joy was so great at beholding again her brother Bob, whom she loved so dearly, that she laughed till she cried and then fainted; while, on her recovery, she laughed and cried again, though she did not faint a second time!But, you should only have seen Rover when he saw his young master.Sarah, “the good Sarah,” said that she would never forget “the way in which that there dog went on as long as she lived!”Of course, it can be well understood that there were no ill-feelings between Bob and the retriever anent the desertion of the latter from the cutter on the day of the boys’ terribly punished escapade; though, the mystery of the dog’s swimming ashore so strangely on that memorable occasion, it may be mentioned here, was never cleared up!The Captain, it must be said, behaved much more unconcernedly than Rover.“By Jove! I told you they’d turn up all right!” said he, chuckling away at such a rate that he could hardly stop to get out the next words. “I always told you so, didn’t I ma’am—now, didn’t I?”“My gracious goodness, Cap’en Dresser, why you were the first to give them up!” cried Mrs Gilmour laughing. “Sure, I never did see such a man!”At this the Captain chuckled still more; and he then told Dick, whom every one was as glad almost to see amongst them again as they were to see Bob, that he intended, when he got strong enough, to send him into the navy so as to prevent him from going to sea again!After a few days’ rest, in order to recuperate from the effects of the strain on all their nerves, Bob’s father said they must all go back to town, their holiday limit being at length reached.Bob and Nellie, on this intimation, began a round of leave-taking which would well-nigh have consumed another long holiday, to have been carried out in accordance with their intention; for they wanted to say “good-bye!” to all their favourite haunts and many acquaintances of the animate and inanimate world in turn.Yes, they must see once more the halcyon spot where they caught the Pandalus, that gem of their aquarium; they had to bid adieu to Mrs Craddock’s cottage, and the old lady herself and daughter; and again inspect the place where the unfortunateBembridge Bellewas wrecked.They had to give a handshake, too, to their friend Hellyer—and all his fellow-coastguardsmen; besides having to go over the Captain’s yacht, which had been sparred and rigged anew, the littleZephyrlooking now “as fresh as paint again” after her eventful vicissitudes adrift in the Channel.Aye, they paid farewell visits to every one and everything, and then wanted to begin over again, it was so hard to part with them all!At last, however, the ordeal was accomplished; and all their goods and chattels and new acquisitions, especially the aquarium and its various occupants, that terrible Mesembryanthemum included, being properly packed up and labelled, behold the party one fine morning at the railway-station on their way to London as soon as the train should start!Here Rover, despite his frantic howls on escaping his former prison, was snugly incarcerated in the guard’s van; when the others, after exchanging last words with Mrs Gilmour and the Captain, entered a saloon-carriage which had been reserved for them for the journey, Bob and Nell, it may be taken for granted, being the last to get in, loth to leave “aunt Polly” and “that dear old sailor” who had won their hearts, as well as say “good-bye” to Dick, the whilom uninvited guest of their first eventful journey “Down the line,” and subsequent faithful companion of Bob in his wonderful adventures by sea and land.

“Ah, le petit bon homme vit encore!” cried Antoine, hearing the voice and bending over from his seat on the after-thwart, being anxious as to the condition of the patients to whom Jacques was ministering. “Donnez lui encore d’eau de vie, mon ami!”

Jacques thereupon repeated the dose of brandy to Bob, who closed his eyes again and leant back, the spirit and the sound of the strange language, with the queer surroundings that had met his gaze on looking round the fo’c’s’le of the lugger, making him believe he was still in a dream.

“Where am I?” he presently repeated, rousing up again. “Where am I?”

“In France,” replied Jacques in English as good as his own, smiling as he spoke. “At least, you’re aboard a French vessel; and, that’s as good as being in France!”

“But, you are English,” replied Bob freely. “You are English, eh?”

“Yes, I’m English,” answered the other. “But, you had better not talk now. Wait till after you’ve taken some nice soup which I’ve got cooking here that will put new strength into you, and then we’ll tell each other all about ourselves.”

He then left Bob to attend to Dick, whom it took considerably longer to bring round; although by administering a few drops of brandy at intervals, varied by an occasional spoonful every now and then of the savoury soup from the saucepan on the fire, which was really a regular French stew, Dick became ultimately, as Bob already was through the same regimen, much better—the poor boy now recovering his consciousness and being able to speak.

The two invalids were then put to bed comfortably in a couple of bunks on either side of the fo’c’s’le; while the lugger, whose name, by the way, was theJeanne d’Arc, reached over towards the English coast, to see what fishing she could get in those prohibited waters.

Late in the afternoon, Bob and Dick both woke up refreshed; when, each had another jorum of the savoury soup, which Bob said subsequently was the nicest thing, he believed, he had ever tasted in his life! The boys, then, feeling quite well, so to speak, went on to tell the kind sailors all about their adventures, Bob, of course, being the principal spokesman.

“Ah!” observed Jacques. “You are living at Portsmouth, then?”

“No, I’ve only been stopping there for the season,” replied Bob. “But, I like it very much!”

“It’s my native place, sir. I was born there!” cried Jacques. “My father was in the English navy; and my old mother, who is yet alive, has a house of her own in the town! It’s only through my having married a French wife that has took me over here along with the Parlyvoos!”

“How strange!” exclaimed Bob. “Why, we went to see only the other day a Mrs Craddock, who has a daughter who’s very ill, that my aunt Polly goes to see; and she told us she had a son married to a French girl and he was living at Saint Malo!”

“Why, that’s me!” cried Jacques; although “Jacques” no longer to us. “I’m Jim Craddock, and the old lady that you saw is my mother! My word! this is a rum start!”

After the curious coincidence of Bob and Dick being rescued by the son of “the old egg-woman,” as they always called her, between whom and themselves Rover had in the original instance scraped an acquaintance, nothing would content Jim Craddock but that he must bear up at once for Portsmouth, and restore Bob and Dick to those who bewailed them as lost, as well as return the battered little yacht, which the lugger had in tow astern, to her proper owner.

The meeting between Bob and his parents is too sacred a matter to touch upon here; but, it is easy enough to imagine the delight of those welcoming one coming back to them as it were from the dead; Dick, too, being received like another son.

As for Nellie, her joy was so great at beholding again her brother Bob, whom she loved so dearly, that she laughed till she cried and then fainted; while, on her recovery, she laughed and cried again, though she did not faint a second time!

But, you should only have seen Rover when he saw his young master.

Sarah, “the good Sarah,” said that she would never forget “the way in which that there dog went on as long as she lived!”

Of course, it can be well understood that there were no ill-feelings between Bob and the retriever anent the desertion of the latter from the cutter on the day of the boys’ terribly punished escapade; though, the mystery of the dog’s swimming ashore so strangely on that memorable occasion, it may be mentioned here, was never cleared up!

The Captain, it must be said, behaved much more unconcernedly than Rover.

“By Jove! I told you they’d turn up all right!” said he, chuckling away at such a rate that he could hardly stop to get out the next words. “I always told you so, didn’t I ma’am—now, didn’t I?”

“My gracious goodness, Cap’en Dresser, why you were the first to give them up!” cried Mrs Gilmour laughing. “Sure, I never did see such a man!”

At this the Captain chuckled still more; and he then told Dick, whom every one was as glad almost to see amongst them again as they were to see Bob, that he intended, when he got strong enough, to send him into the navy so as to prevent him from going to sea again!

After a few days’ rest, in order to recuperate from the effects of the strain on all their nerves, Bob’s father said they must all go back to town, their holiday limit being at length reached.

Bob and Nellie, on this intimation, began a round of leave-taking which would well-nigh have consumed another long holiday, to have been carried out in accordance with their intention; for they wanted to say “good-bye!” to all their favourite haunts and many acquaintances of the animate and inanimate world in turn.

Yes, they must see once more the halcyon spot where they caught the Pandalus, that gem of their aquarium; they had to bid adieu to Mrs Craddock’s cottage, and the old lady herself and daughter; and again inspect the place where the unfortunateBembridge Bellewas wrecked.

They had to give a handshake, too, to their friend Hellyer—and all his fellow-coastguardsmen; besides having to go over the Captain’s yacht, which had been sparred and rigged anew, the littleZephyrlooking now “as fresh as paint again” after her eventful vicissitudes adrift in the Channel.

Aye, they paid farewell visits to every one and everything, and then wanted to begin over again, it was so hard to part with them all!

At last, however, the ordeal was accomplished; and all their goods and chattels and new acquisitions, especially the aquarium and its various occupants, that terrible Mesembryanthemum included, being properly packed up and labelled, behold the party one fine morning at the railway-station on their way to London as soon as the train should start!

Here Rover, despite his frantic howls on escaping his former prison, was snugly incarcerated in the guard’s van; when the others, after exchanging last words with Mrs Gilmour and the Captain, entered a saloon-carriage which had been reserved for them for the journey, Bob and Nell, it may be taken for granted, being the last to get in, loth to leave “aunt Polly” and “that dear old sailor” who had won their hearts, as well as say “good-bye” to Dick, the whilom uninvited guest of their first eventful journey “Down the line,” and subsequent faithful companion of Bob in his wonderful adventures by sea and land.

Chapter Twenty Nine.A last Word.There was a warning shriek from the engine’s steam-whistle, as if it were impatient to be off, and angrily wanting to know why it was kept thus unnecessarily waiting.Following up the scream of the whistle came the last cling! clang! of the railway-porter’s bell, telling belated passengers that “time” was “up.”Next ensued the scrambling and scurrying of the aforesaid belated passengers, who always appear to put off making up their minds as to whether they shall start or not until the last moment of grace has expired.Then, finally, after much clanging of doors upon the backs of those thus nearly left behind, with a snort of indignation and defiance of things in general, and late passengers in particular, the panting, puffing, fuming iron horse metaphorically and practically “put his shoulder to the wheel,” lugging the rolling, rumbling, heavy train out of the station Londonwards, with a “puff-puff, pant-pant!” from his hoarse throat, answered by the groans and creaks of sympathy from the laden carriages and the clinking rattle of the coupling-chains, as they drew taut from the tension, lending a sort of cymbal-like accompaniment to the noisy chorus.Bob and Nellie watched their aunt and the Captain standing on the platform, waving their handkerchiefs from the window of their compartment, which they found it a hard matter to shove their heads through two at a time, until a bend in the line swept aunt Pollys Captain Dresser, platform and all out of sight.Then, sitting down disconsolately in their seats, Bob, who, of course, thought it unmanly to cry, screwed himself up in a corner in default of that alleviation of his misery, looking the very picture of woe; while poor Nell, being a girl and freed from such Spartan obligations, sought refuge from her sorrow in silent tears.“Now, Nellie dear,” said her mother reprovingly, “you mustn’t be so foolish! Of course, I can make allowance for your sorrow at leaving Southsea, where you have been so happy; but these partings, dearie, will come some time or other, and, besides, you know, both aunt Polly and Captain Dresser have promised to come up to us at Christmas, so you’ll see them again soon.”This made poor Nell try to compose herself; and presently she smiled through her tears, exchanging reminiscences of the past few weeks of their enjoyment by the sea with Bob, who also, after a time, shook off his grumpiness—the feeling that they were going “home” again, by and by overcoming their depression at leaving, perhaps for ever, the scene of so many delights and such a terrible ordeal at the last!“I wonder how old Blinkie will look?” said Bob, trying to picture the jackdaw as he would appear when conscious of his owner’s return; and then, deciding in his own mind that the only tribute of affection which he might expect would, most probably, be a sharp peck from Blinkie’s beak, he added, “I dare say he won’t remember me at all!”Nellie’s thoughts were directed to Snuffles the asthmatic cat, her great pet; and she believed that highly-trained animal would not only know her again after her long absence, but would certainly express her satisfaction in a much more endearing manner, if not quite so touching or pointed!Thus the two beguiled the tedium of their journey; and, such was their joy on the train’s arrival in town at last, that no one would have believed them to be the same Bob and Nell who had given way so greatly to their grief on leaving the seaside!Naturally, Rover’s pleasure at being released from his temporary imprisonment in the guard’s van could be easily accounted for; but, the way in which, when he got back to his old home, he walked deliberately to the bottom of the garden in perfect remembrance of the spot where he had buried his last bone before going away, showed that he, at least, did not forget so easily.The dog’s memory, too, was equally green concerning his old friends Snuffles and Blinkie, as that of his young master and mistress; for he so sniffed and snuffed Snuffles in his exuberance at seeing her again, that he seriously disarranged her fur, while he allowed the jackdaw to peck at his legs and even his nose, without the slightest attempt at retaliation!Not long after their getting back, Bob and Nell had a great joke all to themselves.Their father and mother were sending down an invalid chair for Mrs Craddock’s daughter, one in which she could be taken out into the open-air—it was a thing for which the poor girl had always been longing, as aunt Polly managed to find out for them when they were thinking of what sort of return they could make for the kind way in which the old lady’s son had rescued Bob, Jim himself refusing any recompense whatever, despite all the barrister’s and Captain Dresser’s efforts.So, this parcel being about to be dispatched “Down the line,” Master Bob and Miss Nell bethought them that they would send a present too; not only to Dick, who was always in their minds, but one also for—whom do you think?Why, for Sarah, “the good Sarah!”And, what do you think the present was, eh?You would never guess.Well, a nice little loaf of bread and an ounce packet of the best black tea, both packed up in a very pretty box that also contained a remarkably smart cap, with ribbons of a colour such as the soul of Sarah loved.Nor was this all,On the lid of the box was an elaborate device in hieroglyphic characters, which could be readily understood when properly explained by the young designers, detailing the leading incidents of a celebrated picnic in the woods which once occurred; although, possibly the uninitiated might experience some little difficulty at first in discriminating between what were meant for the figures of the principal personages of the story and the objects of still life depicted in the drawing, though otherwise it was an admirable work of art.Regarding the copy of verses also pinned on to the box, which the device in question was intended to illustrate, there could be no mistake; the verses, indeed, being a replica of an original poem, preserved in the Bobo-Nellonian archives and entitled, “Sarah’s forget-me-nots,” wherewith the reader has been already made acquainted.The parcel was duly dispatched down to Southsea; but, though Nellie subsequently wrote a nice little letter to the Captain in her own nice handwriting, large and legible, such as the old sailor could read comfortably without spectacles, wherein she mentioned all the latest news of her aquarium tenants, telling how the hermit crab had distrained for his rent on a young lobster who had cast-off his shell, and that a small skate objected to the ice, she could learn nothing of how “the good Sarah” received her present.Nor could Bob gain any information on the subject from aunt Polly, to whom he sent a long epistle bearing on the same momentous theme.Both had to wait to have their curiosity satisfied until their aunt Polly and Captain Dresser came up to London at Christmastide; when at length the two of them managed to worm the secret out of the Captain.The old sailor had been giving them all the news about those they had known down at Southsea; how Dick had at last been accepted for the navy and entered as a second-class boy on board theSaint Vincent, being bound to make a full able-bodied sailor in time; and how Hellyer had got a little pension in addition to his pay, as he was now “chief officer” of the coastguard; after which, the Captain at last referred to Sarah, “the good Sarah!”“By Jove!” said he, “I shall never forget that night your box came! I was playing cribbage with your aunt Polly—and she cheated me, too, by the same token, in the fuss that occurred on opening the parcel, by scoring ‘two for his heels,’ when it only should have been ‘one for his nob.’ You never saw such a disgraceful thing done in your life, really a most barefaced piece of cheating!”“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs Gilmour. “Sure, I’m listening to all those stories you are telling! Won’t I pay you out, too, by and by, when you come round to ‘the Moorings’ again. You just wait and see!”“I assure you, ma’am, it’s a fact,” persisted the Captain unblushingly, his little eyes blinking with fun under his bushy eyebrows, which were going up and down at a fine rate, I can tell you. “I saw you move the pegs, ma’am, when you thought I wasn’t looking!”“But, what did Sarah say?” asked Nellie, clinging to the old sailor and trying to attract his attention to the point at issue, from which he seemed sadly inclined to stray. “What did the good Sarah say?”“Eh?” said he, cocking his head on one side in his most bird-like fashion and pretending not to understand his questioner. “Eh?”“Oh, do tell us!” cried Bob, catching hold of him by the other arm. “How did ‘the good Sarah’ look?”“Why,” chuckled the Captain, bringing down his old malacca cane with a thump on the floor. “Jolly, my boy, jolly!”The End.

There was a warning shriek from the engine’s steam-whistle, as if it were impatient to be off, and angrily wanting to know why it was kept thus unnecessarily waiting.

Following up the scream of the whistle came the last cling! clang! of the railway-porter’s bell, telling belated passengers that “time” was “up.”

Next ensued the scrambling and scurrying of the aforesaid belated passengers, who always appear to put off making up their minds as to whether they shall start or not until the last moment of grace has expired.

Then, finally, after much clanging of doors upon the backs of those thus nearly left behind, with a snort of indignation and defiance of things in general, and late passengers in particular, the panting, puffing, fuming iron horse metaphorically and practically “put his shoulder to the wheel,” lugging the rolling, rumbling, heavy train out of the station Londonwards, with a “puff-puff, pant-pant!” from his hoarse throat, answered by the groans and creaks of sympathy from the laden carriages and the clinking rattle of the coupling-chains, as they drew taut from the tension, lending a sort of cymbal-like accompaniment to the noisy chorus.

Bob and Nellie watched their aunt and the Captain standing on the platform, waving their handkerchiefs from the window of their compartment, which they found it a hard matter to shove their heads through two at a time, until a bend in the line swept aunt Pollys Captain Dresser, platform and all out of sight.

Then, sitting down disconsolately in their seats, Bob, who, of course, thought it unmanly to cry, screwed himself up in a corner in default of that alleviation of his misery, looking the very picture of woe; while poor Nell, being a girl and freed from such Spartan obligations, sought refuge from her sorrow in silent tears.

“Now, Nellie dear,” said her mother reprovingly, “you mustn’t be so foolish! Of course, I can make allowance for your sorrow at leaving Southsea, where you have been so happy; but these partings, dearie, will come some time or other, and, besides, you know, both aunt Polly and Captain Dresser have promised to come up to us at Christmas, so you’ll see them again soon.”

This made poor Nell try to compose herself; and presently she smiled through her tears, exchanging reminiscences of the past few weeks of their enjoyment by the sea with Bob, who also, after a time, shook off his grumpiness—the feeling that they were going “home” again, by and by overcoming their depression at leaving, perhaps for ever, the scene of so many delights and such a terrible ordeal at the last!

“I wonder how old Blinkie will look?” said Bob, trying to picture the jackdaw as he would appear when conscious of his owner’s return; and then, deciding in his own mind that the only tribute of affection which he might expect would, most probably, be a sharp peck from Blinkie’s beak, he added, “I dare say he won’t remember me at all!”

Nellie’s thoughts were directed to Snuffles the asthmatic cat, her great pet; and she believed that highly-trained animal would not only know her again after her long absence, but would certainly express her satisfaction in a much more endearing manner, if not quite so touching or pointed!

Thus the two beguiled the tedium of their journey; and, such was their joy on the train’s arrival in town at last, that no one would have believed them to be the same Bob and Nell who had given way so greatly to their grief on leaving the seaside!

Naturally, Rover’s pleasure at being released from his temporary imprisonment in the guard’s van could be easily accounted for; but, the way in which, when he got back to his old home, he walked deliberately to the bottom of the garden in perfect remembrance of the spot where he had buried his last bone before going away, showed that he, at least, did not forget so easily.

The dog’s memory, too, was equally green concerning his old friends Snuffles and Blinkie, as that of his young master and mistress; for he so sniffed and snuffed Snuffles in his exuberance at seeing her again, that he seriously disarranged her fur, while he allowed the jackdaw to peck at his legs and even his nose, without the slightest attempt at retaliation!

Not long after their getting back, Bob and Nell had a great joke all to themselves.

Their father and mother were sending down an invalid chair for Mrs Craddock’s daughter, one in which she could be taken out into the open-air—it was a thing for which the poor girl had always been longing, as aunt Polly managed to find out for them when they were thinking of what sort of return they could make for the kind way in which the old lady’s son had rescued Bob, Jim himself refusing any recompense whatever, despite all the barrister’s and Captain Dresser’s efforts.

So, this parcel being about to be dispatched “Down the line,” Master Bob and Miss Nell bethought them that they would send a present too; not only to Dick, who was always in their minds, but one also for—whom do you think?

Why, for Sarah, “the good Sarah!”

And, what do you think the present was, eh?

You would never guess.

Well, a nice little loaf of bread and an ounce packet of the best black tea, both packed up in a very pretty box that also contained a remarkably smart cap, with ribbons of a colour such as the soul of Sarah loved.

Nor was this all,

On the lid of the box was an elaborate device in hieroglyphic characters, which could be readily understood when properly explained by the young designers, detailing the leading incidents of a celebrated picnic in the woods which once occurred; although, possibly the uninitiated might experience some little difficulty at first in discriminating between what were meant for the figures of the principal personages of the story and the objects of still life depicted in the drawing, though otherwise it was an admirable work of art.

Regarding the copy of verses also pinned on to the box, which the device in question was intended to illustrate, there could be no mistake; the verses, indeed, being a replica of an original poem, preserved in the Bobo-Nellonian archives and entitled, “Sarah’s forget-me-nots,” wherewith the reader has been already made acquainted.

The parcel was duly dispatched down to Southsea; but, though Nellie subsequently wrote a nice little letter to the Captain in her own nice handwriting, large and legible, such as the old sailor could read comfortably without spectacles, wherein she mentioned all the latest news of her aquarium tenants, telling how the hermit crab had distrained for his rent on a young lobster who had cast-off his shell, and that a small skate objected to the ice, she could learn nothing of how “the good Sarah” received her present.

Nor could Bob gain any information on the subject from aunt Polly, to whom he sent a long epistle bearing on the same momentous theme.

Both had to wait to have their curiosity satisfied until their aunt Polly and Captain Dresser came up to London at Christmastide; when at length the two of them managed to worm the secret out of the Captain.

The old sailor had been giving them all the news about those they had known down at Southsea; how Dick had at last been accepted for the navy and entered as a second-class boy on board theSaint Vincent, being bound to make a full able-bodied sailor in time; and how Hellyer had got a little pension in addition to his pay, as he was now “chief officer” of the coastguard; after which, the Captain at last referred to Sarah, “the good Sarah!”

“By Jove!” said he, “I shall never forget that night your box came! I was playing cribbage with your aunt Polly—and she cheated me, too, by the same token, in the fuss that occurred on opening the parcel, by scoring ‘two for his heels,’ when it only should have been ‘one for his nob.’ You never saw such a disgraceful thing done in your life, really a most barefaced piece of cheating!”

“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs Gilmour. “Sure, I’m listening to all those stories you are telling! Won’t I pay you out, too, by and by, when you come round to ‘the Moorings’ again. You just wait and see!”

“I assure you, ma’am, it’s a fact,” persisted the Captain unblushingly, his little eyes blinking with fun under his bushy eyebrows, which were going up and down at a fine rate, I can tell you. “I saw you move the pegs, ma’am, when you thought I wasn’t looking!”

“But, what did Sarah say?” asked Nellie, clinging to the old sailor and trying to attract his attention to the point at issue, from which he seemed sadly inclined to stray. “What did the good Sarah say?”

“Eh?” said he, cocking his head on one side in his most bird-like fashion and pretending not to understand his questioner. “Eh?”

“Oh, do tell us!” cried Bob, catching hold of him by the other arm. “How did ‘the good Sarah’ look?”

“Why,” chuckled the Captain, bringing down his old malacca cane with a thump on the floor. “Jolly, my boy, jolly!”

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