Chapter Ten.

Chapter Ten.Gone!“Speak, woman!” cried Mrs Lavington hoarsely; and she shook little Sally by the arm. “What do you mean?”“I don’t know, ma’am. I’m in such trouble,” sobbed Sally. “I’ve been a very, very wicked girl—I mean woman. I was always finding fault, and scolding him.”“Why?” asked Uncle Josiah sternly.“I don’t know, sir.”“But he is a quiet industrious man, and I’m sure he is a good husband.”“Yes, he’s the best of husbands,” sobbed Sally.“Then why did you scold him?”“Because I was so wicked, I suppose. I couldn’t help it, sir.”“But you think he has run away?”“Yes, sir; I’m sure of it. He said he would some day if I was so cruel, and that seemed to make me more cruel, and—and—he has gone.”“It is impossible!” said Uncle Josiah. “He must have met with some accident.”“No, sir, he has run away and left me. He said he would. I saw him go—out of the window, and he took a bundle with him, and—and—what shall I do? What shall I do?”“Took a bundle?” said Uncle Josiah, starting.“Yes, sir, and—and I wish I was dead.”“Silence, you foolish little woman! How dare you wish such a thing? Stop; listen to what I say. Did my nephew Lindon come to the yard last night?”“No, sir; but him and my Jem were talking together for ever so long in the office, and I couldn’t get Jem away.”Uncle Josiah gave vent to a low whistle.“Please ask Master Don what my Jem said.”“Do you not understand, my good woman, that my son has not been home all night?” said Mrs Lavington, piteously.“What? Not been home?” cried Sally, sharply. “Then they’re gone off together.”Uncle Josiah drew a long breath.“That Master Don was always talking to my poor Jem, and he has persuaded him, and they’re gone.”“It is not true!” cried Kitty in a sharp voice as she stood by the table, quivering with anger. “If Cousin Don has gone away, it is your wicked husband who has persuaded him. Father, dear, don’t let them go; pray, pray fetch them back.”Uncle Josiah’s brow grew more rugged, and there were hard lines about his lips, till his sister laid her hand upon his arm, when he started, and took her hand, looking sadly down in her face.“You hear what Kitty says,” whispered Mrs Lavington; “pray—pray fetch them back.”Little Mrs Wimble heard her words, and gave the old merchant an imploring look.But the old man’s face only grew more hard.“I am afraid it must be true,” he said. “Foolish boy! Woman, your husband has behaved like an idiot.”“But you will send and fetch them back, Josiah.”“Don’t talk nonsense, Laura,” said the old man angrily. “How can I fetch them back? Foolish boy! At a time like this. Is he afraid to face the truth?”“No, no, Josiah,” cried Mrs Lavington; “it is only that he was hurt.”“Hurt? He has hurt himself. That man will be before the magistrates to-day, and I passed my word to the constable that Lindon should be present to answer the charge made against him.”“Yes, dear, and he has been thoughtless. But you will forgive him, and have him brought back.”“Have him brought back!” cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. “What can I do? The law will have him brought back now.”“What? Oh, brother, don’t say that!”“I must tell you the truth,” said Uncle Josiah sternly. “It is the same as breaking faith, and he has given strength to that scoundrel’s charge.”“But what shall I do?” sobbed little Sally Wimble. “My Jem hadn’t done anything. Oh, please, sir, fetch him back.”“Your husband has taken his own road, my good woman,” said Uncle Josiah coldly, “and he must suffer for it.”“But what’s to become of me, sir? What shall I do without a husband?”“Go back home and wait.”“But I have no home, sir, now,” sobbed Sally. “You’ll want the cottage for some other man.”“Go back home and wait.”“But you’ll try and fetch him back, sir?”“I don’t know what I shall do yet,” said the old man sternly. “I’m afraid I do not know the worst. There, go away now. Who’s that?”There was a general excitement, for a loud knock was heard at the door.Jessie came in directly after, looking round eyed and staring.“Well, what is it?” said Uncle Josiah.“If you please, sir, Mr Smithers the constable came, and I was to tell you that you’re to be at the magistrate’s office at eleven, and bring Master Don with you.”“Yes,” said Uncle Josiah bitterly; “at the magistrate’s office at eleven, and take Lindon with me. Well, Laura, what have you to say to that?”Mrs Lavington gave him an imploring look.“Try and find him,” she whispered, “for my sake.”“Try and find him!” he replied angrily, “I was willing to look over everything—to try and fight his battle and prove to the world that the accusation was false.”“Yes, yes, and you will do so now—Josiah—brother.”“I cannot,” said the old man sternly. “He has disgraced me, and openly declared to the world that the accusation of that scoundrel is true.”

“Speak, woman!” cried Mrs Lavington hoarsely; and she shook little Sally by the arm. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. I’m in such trouble,” sobbed Sally. “I’ve been a very, very wicked girl—I mean woman. I was always finding fault, and scolding him.”

“Why?” asked Uncle Josiah sternly.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“But he is a quiet industrious man, and I’m sure he is a good husband.”

“Yes, he’s the best of husbands,” sobbed Sally.

“Then why did you scold him?”

“Because I was so wicked, I suppose. I couldn’t help it, sir.”

“But you think he has run away?”

“Yes, sir; I’m sure of it. He said he would some day if I was so cruel, and that seemed to make me more cruel, and—and—he has gone.”

“It is impossible!” said Uncle Josiah. “He must have met with some accident.”

“No, sir, he has run away and left me. He said he would. I saw him go—out of the window, and he took a bundle with him, and—and—what shall I do? What shall I do?”

“Took a bundle?” said Uncle Josiah, starting.

“Yes, sir, and—and I wish I was dead.”

“Silence, you foolish little woman! How dare you wish such a thing? Stop; listen to what I say. Did my nephew Lindon come to the yard last night?”

“No, sir; but him and my Jem were talking together for ever so long in the office, and I couldn’t get Jem away.”

Uncle Josiah gave vent to a low whistle.

“Please ask Master Don what my Jem said.”

“Do you not understand, my good woman, that my son has not been home all night?” said Mrs Lavington, piteously.

“What? Not been home?” cried Sally, sharply. “Then they’re gone off together.”

Uncle Josiah drew a long breath.

“That Master Don was always talking to my poor Jem, and he has persuaded him, and they’re gone.”

“It is not true!” cried Kitty in a sharp voice as she stood by the table, quivering with anger. “If Cousin Don has gone away, it is your wicked husband who has persuaded him. Father, dear, don’t let them go; pray, pray fetch them back.”

Uncle Josiah’s brow grew more rugged, and there were hard lines about his lips, till his sister laid her hand upon his arm, when he started, and took her hand, looking sadly down in her face.

“You hear what Kitty says,” whispered Mrs Lavington; “pray—pray fetch them back.”

Little Mrs Wimble heard her words, and gave the old merchant an imploring look.

But the old man’s face only grew more hard.

“I am afraid it must be true,” he said. “Foolish boy! Woman, your husband has behaved like an idiot.”

“But you will send and fetch them back, Josiah.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Laura,” said the old man angrily. “How can I fetch them back? Foolish boy! At a time like this. Is he afraid to face the truth?”

“No, no, Josiah,” cried Mrs Lavington; “it is only that he was hurt.”

“Hurt? He has hurt himself. That man will be before the magistrates to-day, and I passed my word to the constable that Lindon should be present to answer the charge made against him.”

“Yes, dear, and he has been thoughtless. But you will forgive him, and have him brought back.”

“Have him brought back!” cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. “What can I do? The law will have him brought back now.”

“What? Oh, brother, don’t say that!”

“I must tell you the truth,” said Uncle Josiah sternly. “It is the same as breaking faith, and he has given strength to that scoundrel’s charge.”

“But what shall I do?” sobbed little Sally Wimble. “My Jem hadn’t done anything. Oh, please, sir, fetch him back.”

“Your husband has taken his own road, my good woman,” said Uncle Josiah coldly, “and he must suffer for it.”

“But what’s to become of me, sir? What shall I do without a husband?”

“Go back home and wait.”

“But I have no home, sir, now,” sobbed Sally. “You’ll want the cottage for some other man.”

“Go back home and wait.”

“But you’ll try and fetch him back, sir?”

“I don’t know what I shall do yet,” said the old man sternly. “I’m afraid I do not know the worst. There, go away now. Who’s that?”

There was a general excitement, for a loud knock was heard at the door.

Jessie came in directly after, looking round eyed and staring.

“Well, what is it?” said Uncle Josiah.

“If you please, sir, Mr Smithers the constable came, and I was to tell you that you’re to be at the magistrate’s office at eleven, and bring Master Don with you.”

“Yes,” said Uncle Josiah bitterly; “at the magistrate’s office at eleven, and take Lindon with me. Well, Laura, what have you to say to that?”

Mrs Lavington gave him an imploring look.

“Try and find him,” she whispered, “for my sake.”

“Try and find him!” he replied angrily, “I was willing to look over everything—to try and fight his battle and prove to the world that the accusation was false.”

“Yes, yes, and you will do so now—Josiah—brother.”

“I cannot,” said the old man sternly. “He has disgraced me, and openly declared to the world that the accusation of that scoundrel is true.”

Chapter Eleven.Thinking better of it.Don stood looking at Jem Wimble for some few minutes in silence, as if the sight of some one else in trouble did him good. Then he sat down on the stock of an old anchor, to begin picking at the red rust scales as he too stared at the ships moored here and there.The tall masts and rigging had a certain fascination for Don, and each vessel seemed to offer a way out of his difficulties. For once on board a ship with the sails spread, and the open sea before him, he might cross right away to one of those beautiful lands of which Mike had spoken, and then—The thought of Mike altered the case directly, and he sat staring straight before him at the ships.Jem was the next to break the silence.“Thinking you’d like to go right away, Master Don?”“Yes, Jem.”“So was I, sir. Only think how nice it would be somewhere abroad, where there was no Sally.”“And no Uncle Josiah, Jem.”“Ay, and no Mike to get you into trouble. Be fine, wouldn’t it?”“Glorious, Jem.”“Mean to go, Master Don?”“What, and be a miserable coward? No.”“But you was a-thinking something of the kind, sir.”“Yes, I was, Jem. Everybody is stupid sometimes, and I was stupid then. No. I’ve thought better of it.”“And you won’t go, sir?”“Go? No. Why, it would be like saying what Mike accused me of was true.”“So it would, sir. Now that’s just how I felt. I says to myself, ‘Jem,’ I says, ‘don’t you stand it. What you’ve got to do is to go right away and let Sally shift for herself; then she’d find out your vally,’ I says, ‘and be sorry for what she’s said and done,’ but I knew if I did she’d begin to crow and think she’d beat me, and besides, it would be such a miserable cowardly trick. No, Mas’ Don, I’m going to grin and bear it, and some day she’ll come round and be as nice as she’s nasty now.”“Yes, that’s the way to look at it, Jem; but it’s a miserable world, isn’t it?”“Well, I arn’t seen much on it, Mas’ Don. I once went for a holiday as far as Bath, and that part on it was miserable enough. My word, how it did rain! In half an hour I hadn’t got a dry thread on me. Deal worse than Bristol, which isn’t the most cheersome o’ places when you’re dull.”“No, Jem, it isn’t. Of course you’ll be at the court to-morrow?”“I suppose so, Mas’ Don. And I say they’d better ask me if I think you took that money. My! But I would give it to some on ’em straight. Can you fight, Mas’ Don?”“I don’t know, Jem. I never tried.”“I can. You don’t know what a crack I could give a man. It’s my arms is so strong with moving sugar-hogsheads, I suppose. I shouldn’t wish to be the man I hit if I did my best.”“You mean your worst, Jem.”“Course I do, Mas’ Don. Well, as I was going to say, I should just like to settle that there matter with Mr Mike without the magistrates. You give him to me on a clear field for about ten minutes, and I’d make Master Mike down hisself on his knees, and say just whatever I pleased.”“And what good would that do, Jem?”“Not much to him, Mas’ Don, because he’d be so precious sore afterwards, but it would do me good, and I would feel afterwards what I don’t feel now, and that’s cheerful. Never mind, sir, it’ll all come right in the end. Nothing like coming out and sitting all alone when you’re crabby. Wind seems to blow it away. When you’ve been sitting here a bit you’ll feel like a new man. Mind me smoking a pipe?”“No, Jem; smoke away.”“Won’t have one too, Mas’ Don?”“No, Jem; you know I can’t smoke.”“Then here goes for mine,” said Jem, taking a little dumpy clay pipe from one pocket and a canvas bag from another, in which were some rough pieces of tobacco leaf. These he crumbled up and thrust into the bowl, after which he took advantage of the shelter afforded by an empty cask to get in, strike a light, and start a pipe.Once lit up, Jem returned to his old seat, and the pair remained in the same place till it was getting dusk, and lights were twinkling among the shipping, when Jem rose and stretched himself.“That’s your sort, Mas’ Don,” he said. “Now I feels better, and I can smile at my little woman when I get home. You aren’t no worse?”“No, Jem, I am no worse.”“Nothing like coming out when you’re red hot, and cooling down. I’m cooled down, and so are you. Come along.”Don felt a sensation of reluctance to return home, but it was getting late, and telling himself that he had nothing to do now but act a straightforward manly part, and glad that he had cast aside his foolish notions about going away, he trudged slowly back with his companion, till turning into one of the dark and narrow lanes leading from the water side, they suddenly became aware that they were not alone, for a stoutly-built sailor stepped in front of them.“Got a light, mate?” he said.“Light? Yes,” said Jem readily; and he prepared to get out his flint and steel, when Don whispered something in his ear.“Ay, to be sure,” he said; “why don’t you take a light from him?”“Eh? Ah, to be sure,” said the sailor. “I forgot. Here, Joe, mate, open the lanthorn and give us a light.”Another sailor, a couple of yards away, opened a horn lanthorn, and the first man bent down to light his pipe, the dull rays of the coarse candle showing something which startled Don.“Come on, Jem,” he whispered; “make haste.”“Ay? To be sure, my lad. There’s nothing to mind though. Only sailors.”As he spoke there were other steps behind, and more from the front, and Don realised that they were hemmed in that narrow lane between two little parties of armed men.Just then the door of the lanthorn was closed, and the man who bore it held it close to Jem’s face.“Well?” said that worthy, good-temperedly, “what d’yer think of me, eh? Lost some one? ’Cause I arn’t him.”“I don’t know so much about that,” said a voice; and a young-looking man in a heavy pea jacket whispered a few words to one of the sailors.Don felt more uneasy, for he saw that the point of a scabbard hung down below the last speaker’s jacket, which bulged out as if there were pistols beneath, all of which he could dimly make out in the faint glow of the lanthorn.“Come away, Jem, quick!” whispered Don.“Here, what’s your hurry, my lads?” said the youngish man in rather an authoritative way. “Come and have a glass of grog.”“No, thank ye,” said Jem; “I’ve got to be home.”“So have we, mate,” said the hoarse-voiced man who had asked for a light; “and when a horficer asks you to drink you shouldn’t say no.”“I knew it, Jem,” whispered Don excitedly. “Officer! Do you hear?”“What are you whispering about, youngster?” said the man in the pea jacket. “You let him be.”“Good-night,” said Jem shortly. “Come on, Mas’ Don.”He stepped forward, but the young man hurried on the men, who had now closed in round them; and as Jem gave one of them a sturdy push to get off, the thrust was returned with interest.“Where are you shovin’ to, mate?” growled the man. “Arn’t the road wide enough for you?”“Quiet, my lad,” said the officer sharply. “Here, you come below here and have a glass of grog.”“I don’t want no grog,” said Jem; “and I should thank you to tell your men to let me pass.”“Yes, by-and-by,” said the officer. “Now then, my lads, sharp.”A couple of men crowded on Jem, one of them forcing himself between the sturdy fellow and Don, whose cheeks flushed with anger as he felt himself rudely thrust up against the wall of one of the houses.“Here, what are you doing of?” cried Jem sharply.“Being civil,” said one of the men with a laugh. “There, no nonsense. Come quiet.”He might just as well have said that to an angry bull, for as he and his companion seized Jem by the arms, they found for themselves how strong those arms were, one being sent staggering against Don, and the other being lifted off his legs and dropped upon his back.“Now, Mas’ Don, run!” shouted Jem.But before the words were well out of his lips, the party closed in upon him, paying no heed to Don, who in accordance with Jem’s command had rushed off in retreat.A few moments later he stopped, for Jem was not with him, but struggling with all his might in the midst of the knot of men who were trying to hold him.“Mas’ Don! Help, help!” roared Jem; and Don dashed at the gang, his fists clenched, teeth set, and a curious singing noise in his ears. But as he reached the spot where his companion was making a desperate struggle for his liberty, Jem shouted again,—“No, no! Mas’ Don; run for it, my lad, and get help if you can.”Like a flash it occurred to Don that long before he could get help Jem would be overpowered and carried off, and with the natural fighting instinct fully raised, he struck out with all his might as he strove to get to the poor fellow, who was writhing and heaving, and giving his captors a tremendous task to hold him.“Here, give him something to keep him quiet,” growled a voice.“No, no; get hold of his hands; that’s right. Serve this cockerel the same. Down with him, quick!” cried the officer sharply; and in obedience to his words the men hung on to poor Jem so tenaciously that he was dragged down on the rough pavement, and a couple of men sat panting upon him while his wrists were secured, and his voice silenced by a great bandage right over his mouth.“You cowards!” Jem tried to roar, as, breathless with exertion, bleeding from a sharp back-handed blow across the mouth, and giddy with excitement and the effects of a rough encounter between his head and the wall, Don made one more attempt to drag himself free, and then stood panting and mastered by two strong men.“Show the light,” said the officer, and the lanthorn was held close to Don’s face.“Well, if the boy can fight like that,” said the officer, “he shall.”“Let us go,” cried Don. “Help! He—”A jacket was thrown over his head, as the officer said mockingly,—“He shall fight for his Majesty the king. Now, my lads, quick. Some one coming, and the wrong sort.”Don felt himself lifted off his feet, and half smothered by the hot jacket which seemed to keep him from breathing, he was hurried along two or three of the lanes, growing more faint and dizzy every moment, till in the midst of a curious nightmare-like sensation, lights began suddenly to dance before his eyes; then all was darkness, and he knew no more till he seemed to wake up from a curious sensation of sickness, and to be listening to Jem Wimble, who would keep on saying in a stupid, aggravating manner,—“Mas’ Don, are you there?”The question must have been repeated many times before Don could get rid of the dizzy feeling of confusion and reply,—“Yes; what do you want?”“Oh, my poor lad!” groaned Jem. “Here, can you come to me and untie this?”“Jem!”“Yes.”“What does it mean? Why is it so dark? Where are we?”“Don’t ask everything at once, my lad, and I’ll try to tell you.”“Has the candle gone out, Jem? Are we in the big cellar?”“Yes, my lad,” groaned Jem, “we’re in a big cellar.”“Can’t you find the candle?” said Don, with his head humming and the mental confusion on the increase. “There’s a flint and steel on the ledge over the door.”“Is there, my lad? I didn’t know it,” muttered Jem. “Jem, are you there?”“Yes, yes, my lad, I’m here.”“Get a light, quick. I must have fallen and hurt myself; my face bleeds.”“Oh, my poor dear lad!”“Eh? What do you mean? You’re playing tricks, Jem, and it’s too bad. Get a light.”“My hands is tied fast behind me, Mas’ Don,” groaned Jem, “and we’re pitched down here in a cellar.”“What?”“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I don’t mind for myself,” groaned Jem, in his despair, “but what will she do?”“Jem!”“I often said I wished I could be took away, but I didn’t mean it, Mas’ Don; I didn’t mean it. What will my Sally do?”“Jem, are you mad?” shouted Don. “This darkness—this cellar. It’s all black, and I can’t think; my head aches, and it’s all strange. Don’t play tricks. Try and open the door and let’s go.”“What, don’t you know what it all means, Mas’ Don?” groaned Jem.“No, I don’t seem as if I could think. What does it mean?”“Mean, my lad? Why, the press-gang’s got us, and unless we can let ’em know at home, we shall be took aboard ship and sent off to sea.”“What?”The light had come—the mental light which drove away the cloud of darkness which had obscured Don Lavington’s brain. He could think now, and he saw once more the dark lane, the swinging lanthorn, and felt, as it were, the struggle going on; and then, sitting up with his hands to his throbbing head, he listened to a low moaning sound close at hand.“Jem,” he said. “Jem! Why don’t you speak?”There was no answer, for it was poor Jem’s turn now; the injuries he had received in his desperate struggle for liberty had had their effect, and he lay there insensible to the great trouble which had come upon him, while it grew more terrible to Don, in the darkness of that cellar, with every breath he drew.

Don stood looking at Jem Wimble for some few minutes in silence, as if the sight of some one else in trouble did him good. Then he sat down on the stock of an old anchor, to begin picking at the red rust scales as he too stared at the ships moored here and there.

The tall masts and rigging had a certain fascination for Don, and each vessel seemed to offer a way out of his difficulties. For once on board a ship with the sails spread, and the open sea before him, he might cross right away to one of those beautiful lands of which Mike had spoken, and then—

The thought of Mike altered the case directly, and he sat staring straight before him at the ships.

Jem was the next to break the silence.

“Thinking you’d like to go right away, Master Don?”

“Yes, Jem.”

“So was I, sir. Only think how nice it would be somewhere abroad, where there was no Sally.”

“And no Uncle Josiah, Jem.”

“Ay, and no Mike to get you into trouble. Be fine, wouldn’t it?”

“Glorious, Jem.”

“Mean to go, Master Don?”

“What, and be a miserable coward? No.”

“But you was a-thinking something of the kind, sir.”

“Yes, I was, Jem. Everybody is stupid sometimes, and I was stupid then. No. I’ve thought better of it.”

“And you won’t go, sir?”

“Go? No. Why, it would be like saying what Mike accused me of was true.”

“So it would, sir. Now that’s just how I felt. I says to myself, ‘Jem,’ I says, ‘don’t you stand it. What you’ve got to do is to go right away and let Sally shift for herself; then she’d find out your vally,’ I says, ‘and be sorry for what she’s said and done,’ but I knew if I did she’d begin to crow and think she’d beat me, and besides, it would be such a miserable cowardly trick. No, Mas’ Don, I’m going to grin and bear it, and some day she’ll come round and be as nice as she’s nasty now.”

“Yes, that’s the way to look at it, Jem; but it’s a miserable world, isn’t it?”

“Well, I arn’t seen much on it, Mas’ Don. I once went for a holiday as far as Bath, and that part on it was miserable enough. My word, how it did rain! In half an hour I hadn’t got a dry thread on me. Deal worse than Bristol, which isn’t the most cheersome o’ places when you’re dull.”

“No, Jem, it isn’t. Of course you’ll be at the court to-morrow?”

“I suppose so, Mas’ Don. And I say they’d better ask me if I think you took that money. My! But I would give it to some on ’em straight. Can you fight, Mas’ Don?”

“I don’t know, Jem. I never tried.”

“I can. You don’t know what a crack I could give a man. It’s my arms is so strong with moving sugar-hogsheads, I suppose. I shouldn’t wish to be the man I hit if I did my best.”

“You mean your worst, Jem.”

“Course I do, Mas’ Don. Well, as I was going to say, I should just like to settle that there matter with Mr Mike without the magistrates. You give him to me on a clear field for about ten minutes, and I’d make Master Mike down hisself on his knees, and say just whatever I pleased.”

“And what good would that do, Jem?”

“Not much to him, Mas’ Don, because he’d be so precious sore afterwards, but it would do me good, and I would feel afterwards what I don’t feel now, and that’s cheerful. Never mind, sir, it’ll all come right in the end. Nothing like coming out and sitting all alone when you’re crabby. Wind seems to blow it away. When you’ve been sitting here a bit you’ll feel like a new man. Mind me smoking a pipe?”

“No, Jem; smoke away.”

“Won’t have one too, Mas’ Don?”

“No, Jem; you know I can’t smoke.”

“Then here goes for mine,” said Jem, taking a little dumpy clay pipe from one pocket and a canvas bag from another, in which were some rough pieces of tobacco leaf. These he crumbled up and thrust into the bowl, after which he took advantage of the shelter afforded by an empty cask to get in, strike a light, and start a pipe.

Once lit up, Jem returned to his old seat, and the pair remained in the same place till it was getting dusk, and lights were twinkling among the shipping, when Jem rose and stretched himself.

“That’s your sort, Mas’ Don,” he said. “Now I feels better, and I can smile at my little woman when I get home. You aren’t no worse?”

“No, Jem, I am no worse.”

“Nothing like coming out when you’re red hot, and cooling down. I’m cooled down, and so are you. Come along.”

Don felt a sensation of reluctance to return home, but it was getting late, and telling himself that he had nothing to do now but act a straightforward manly part, and glad that he had cast aside his foolish notions about going away, he trudged slowly back with his companion, till turning into one of the dark and narrow lanes leading from the water side, they suddenly became aware that they were not alone, for a stoutly-built sailor stepped in front of them.

“Got a light, mate?” he said.

“Light? Yes,” said Jem readily; and he prepared to get out his flint and steel, when Don whispered something in his ear.

“Ay, to be sure,” he said; “why don’t you take a light from him?”

“Eh? Ah, to be sure,” said the sailor. “I forgot. Here, Joe, mate, open the lanthorn and give us a light.”

Another sailor, a couple of yards away, opened a horn lanthorn, and the first man bent down to light his pipe, the dull rays of the coarse candle showing something which startled Don.

“Come on, Jem,” he whispered; “make haste.”

“Ay? To be sure, my lad. There’s nothing to mind though. Only sailors.”

As he spoke there were other steps behind, and more from the front, and Don realised that they were hemmed in that narrow lane between two little parties of armed men.

Just then the door of the lanthorn was closed, and the man who bore it held it close to Jem’s face.

“Well?” said that worthy, good-temperedly, “what d’yer think of me, eh? Lost some one? ’Cause I arn’t him.”

“I don’t know so much about that,” said a voice; and a young-looking man in a heavy pea jacket whispered a few words to one of the sailors.

Don felt more uneasy, for he saw that the point of a scabbard hung down below the last speaker’s jacket, which bulged out as if there were pistols beneath, all of which he could dimly make out in the faint glow of the lanthorn.

“Come away, Jem, quick!” whispered Don.

“Here, what’s your hurry, my lads?” said the youngish man in rather an authoritative way. “Come and have a glass of grog.”

“No, thank ye,” said Jem; “I’ve got to be home.”

“So have we, mate,” said the hoarse-voiced man who had asked for a light; “and when a horficer asks you to drink you shouldn’t say no.”

“I knew it, Jem,” whispered Don excitedly. “Officer! Do you hear?”

“What are you whispering about, youngster?” said the man in the pea jacket. “You let him be.”

“Good-night,” said Jem shortly. “Come on, Mas’ Don.”

He stepped forward, but the young man hurried on the men, who had now closed in round them; and as Jem gave one of them a sturdy push to get off, the thrust was returned with interest.

“Where are you shovin’ to, mate?” growled the man. “Arn’t the road wide enough for you?”

“Quiet, my lad,” said the officer sharply. “Here, you come below here and have a glass of grog.”

“I don’t want no grog,” said Jem; “and I should thank you to tell your men to let me pass.”

“Yes, by-and-by,” said the officer. “Now then, my lads, sharp.”

A couple of men crowded on Jem, one of them forcing himself between the sturdy fellow and Don, whose cheeks flushed with anger as he felt himself rudely thrust up against the wall of one of the houses.

“Here, what are you doing of?” cried Jem sharply.

“Being civil,” said one of the men with a laugh. “There, no nonsense. Come quiet.”

He might just as well have said that to an angry bull, for as he and his companion seized Jem by the arms, they found for themselves how strong those arms were, one being sent staggering against Don, and the other being lifted off his legs and dropped upon his back.

“Now, Mas’ Don, run!” shouted Jem.

But before the words were well out of his lips, the party closed in upon him, paying no heed to Don, who in accordance with Jem’s command had rushed off in retreat.

A few moments later he stopped, for Jem was not with him, but struggling with all his might in the midst of the knot of men who were trying to hold him.

“Mas’ Don! Help, help!” roared Jem; and Don dashed at the gang, his fists clenched, teeth set, and a curious singing noise in his ears. But as he reached the spot where his companion was making a desperate struggle for his liberty, Jem shouted again,—

“No, no! Mas’ Don; run for it, my lad, and get help if you can.”

Like a flash it occurred to Don that long before he could get help Jem would be overpowered and carried off, and with the natural fighting instinct fully raised, he struck out with all his might as he strove to get to the poor fellow, who was writhing and heaving, and giving his captors a tremendous task to hold him.

“Here, give him something to keep him quiet,” growled a voice.

“No, no; get hold of his hands; that’s right. Serve this cockerel the same. Down with him, quick!” cried the officer sharply; and in obedience to his words the men hung on to poor Jem so tenaciously that he was dragged down on the rough pavement, and a couple of men sat panting upon him while his wrists were secured, and his voice silenced by a great bandage right over his mouth.

“You cowards!” Jem tried to roar, as, breathless with exertion, bleeding from a sharp back-handed blow across the mouth, and giddy with excitement and the effects of a rough encounter between his head and the wall, Don made one more attempt to drag himself free, and then stood panting and mastered by two strong men.

“Show the light,” said the officer, and the lanthorn was held close to Don’s face.

“Well, if the boy can fight like that,” said the officer, “he shall.”

“Let us go,” cried Don. “Help! He—”

A jacket was thrown over his head, as the officer said mockingly,—

“He shall fight for his Majesty the king. Now, my lads, quick. Some one coming, and the wrong sort.”

Don felt himself lifted off his feet, and half smothered by the hot jacket which seemed to keep him from breathing, he was hurried along two or three of the lanes, growing more faint and dizzy every moment, till in the midst of a curious nightmare-like sensation, lights began suddenly to dance before his eyes; then all was darkness, and he knew no more till he seemed to wake up from a curious sensation of sickness, and to be listening to Jem Wimble, who would keep on saying in a stupid, aggravating manner,—“Mas’ Don, are you there?”

The question must have been repeated many times before Don could get rid of the dizzy feeling of confusion and reply,—“Yes; what do you want?”

“Oh, my poor lad!” groaned Jem. “Here, can you come to me and untie this?”

“Jem!”

“Yes.”

“What does it mean? Why is it so dark? Where are we?”

“Don’t ask everything at once, my lad, and I’ll try to tell you.”

“Has the candle gone out, Jem? Are we in the big cellar?”

“Yes, my lad,” groaned Jem, “we’re in a big cellar.”

“Can’t you find the candle?” said Don, with his head humming and the mental confusion on the increase. “There’s a flint and steel on the ledge over the door.”

“Is there, my lad? I didn’t know it,” muttered Jem. “Jem, are you there?”

“Yes, yes, my lad, I’m here.”

“Get a light, quick. I must have fallen and hurt myself; my face bleeds.”

“Oh, my poor dear lad!”

“Eh? What do you mean? You’re playing tricks, Jem, and it’s too bad. Get a light.”

“My hands is tied fast behind me, Mas’ Don,” groaned Jem, “and we’re pitched down here in a cellar.”

“What?”

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I don’t mind for myself,” groaned Jem, in his despair, “but what will she do?”

“Jem!”

“I often said I wished I could be took away, but I didn’t mean it, Mas’ Don; I didn’t mean it. What will my Sally do?”

“Jem, are you mad?” shouted Don. “This darkness—this cellar. It’s all black, and I can’t think; my head aches, and it’s all strange. Don’t play tricks. Try and open the door and let’s go.”

“What, don’t you know what it all means, Mas’ Don?” groaned Jem.

“No, I don’t seem as if I could think. What does it mean?”

“Mean, my lad? Why, the press-gang’s got us, and unless we can let ’em know at home, we shall be took aboard ship and sent off to sea.”

“What?”

The light had come—the mental light which drove away the cloud of darkness which had obscured Don Lavington’s brain. He could think now, and he saw once more the dark lane, the swinging lanthorn, and felt, as it were, the struggle going on; and then, sitting up with his hands to his throbbing head, he listened to a low moaning sound close at hand.

“Jem,” he said. “Jem! Why don’t you speak?”

There was no answer, for it was poor Jem’s turn now; the injuries he had received in his desperate struggle for liberty had had their effect, and he lay there insensible to the great trouble which had come upon him, while it grew more terrible to Don, in the darkness of that cellar, with every breath he drew.

Chapter Twelve.Prisoners.“What’s the matter?” cried Don, starting up, as there was the sound of bolts being shot back, and a light shone in upon the darkness.Don could hardly believe it possible, but it was quite true. In spite of pain and anxiety, weariness had mastered him, and he had been asleep.As the light shone in, Don could see Jem lying, apparently asleep, but in a very uncomfortable position, and that they were in a low, arched cellar, one which at some time had been used for storing casks; for in one corner there were some mouldy staves, and, close by, a barrel, whose hoops seemed to have slipped down, so that it was in a state of collapse.He had no time to see more, for half a dozen well-armed sailors came in after a bluff-looking man, who crossed at once to the prisoners.“Hold the lanthorn here,” he said sharply. “Now let’s have a look at you.”He examined their injuries in an experienced way, roughly, but not unkindly.“All right, my lad,” he said to Don; “you will not die this time. Now you.”He spent longer over Jem, who roused up and looked at him curiously, as if he did not quite understand.“Been rather rough with this one, my lads.”“Couldn’t help it,” said one of the sailors; “he fote so hard. So did this young chap too.”“Nothing wrong with him, I daresay,” said the bluff man. “No bones broken. All right in a day or two.”Don had been silent while Jem was examined, for he felt that this man was either a doctor, or one who knew something about surgery; but as soon as he had finished, the boy, whose indignation had been growing, turned to him haughtily.“Now, sir!” he exclaimed, “have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage.”“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” cried the bluff man.“It is nothing to laugh at, sir. I insist upon knowing why we have been ill-used and dragged here by your men.”“Well crowed, my young cockerel,” said the bluff man, laughing. “They said you fought well with your fists, so you can with your tongue.”“Insulting us now you have us down will not save you,” cried Don fiercely.“No, my lord,” said the bluff man, as Jem rose up, shook his head, and stood by Don.The men laughed.“You coward!” cried Don in hot anger; “but you shall all suffer for it. My uncle will set the law to work, and have you all punished.”“Really, this is growing serious,” said the bluff man in mock alarm.“You will find it no laughing matter. You have made a mistake this time; so now let us go at once.”“Well, I would with pleasure, my noble captain,” said the bluff man, with mock solemnity; “but his Majesty is in sore need just now of some dashing young fellows who can fight; and he said to our first lieutenant, ‘short of men, Mr Morrison? Dear me, are you? Well then, the best thing you can do is to send round Bristol city, and persuade a few of the brave and daring young fellows there to come on board my good shipGreat Briton, and help me till I’ve settled my quarrel with my enemies,’ so we have persuaded you.”“You are adding insult to what you have done, sir. Now let us pass. You and your miserable press-gang shall smart for this. Stand aside, sir.”“What, after taking all this trouble? Hardly.”“Here, I’m all right again now, Mas’ Don. Press-gang, eh?” cried Jem. “Here, let me get at him.”Jem made a dash at the bluff man, but his arms were seized, and he was held back, struggling hard.“Ah, I wish we had fifty of you,” said the bluff man. “Don’t hurt him, my lads. There, there, steady; you can’t do anything. That will do. Save your strength to fight for the king.”“You cowards!” cried Jem, who suddenly turned so faint that the men easily mastered him, laid him on his back, and one held him down, while another held Don till the rest had passed out, the bluff man only standing at the entrance with another holding up the light.“Come along,” he shouted; and the man who held Jem left him, and ran out.“Do you hear?” cried the bluff man again. “Come along!”“How can I, when he’s sticking on like a rat?” growled the man who held Don. “Did you ever see such a young ruffian?”The bluff man took a stride or two forward, gripped Don by the shoulder, and forced him from his hold.“Don’t be a young fool,” he said firmly, but not unkindly. “It’s plucky, but it’s no good. Can’t you see we’re seven to one?”“I don’t care if you’re a hundred,” raged Don, struggling hard, but vainly.“Bravo, boy! That’s right; but we’re English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that.”He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem.“You’ll do,” he said. “I thought we’d let you go, because you’re such a boy, but you’ve got the pluck of a man, and you’ll soon grow.”He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed at him again, but only flung himself against the door, which was banged in his face, and locked.“The cowards!” panted Don, as he stood there in the darkness. “Why, Jem!”“Yes, Mas’ Don.”“They won’t let us go.”“No, Mas’ Don, that they won’t.”“I never thought the press-gang would dare to do such a thing as this.”“I did, sir. They’d press the monkeys out of a wild beast show if they got the chance.”“But what are we to do?”“I d’know, sir.”“We must let my uncle know at once.”“Yes, sir, I would,” said Jem grimly; “I’d holloa.”“Don’t be stupid. What’s the good?”“Not a bit, sir.”“But my uncle—my mother, what will they think?”“I’ll tell yer, sir.”“Yes?”“They’ll think you’ve run away, so as not to have to go ’fore the magistrates.”“Jem, what are you saying? Think I’m a thief?”“I didn’t say that, sir; but so sure as you don’t go home, they’ll think you’ve cut away.”“Jem!” cried Don in a despairing voice, as he recalled the bundle he had made up, and the drawer left open.“Well, sir, you was allus a-wanting to go abroad, and get away from the desk,” said Jem ill-naturedly—“oh, how my head do ache!—and now you’ve got your chance.”“But that was all nonsense, Jem. I was only thinking then like a stupid, discontented boy. I don’t want to go. What will they say?”“Dunno what they’ll say,” said Jem dolefully, “but I know what my Sally will say. I used to talk about going and leaving her, but that was because I too was a hidyut. I didn’t want to go and leave her, poor little lass. Too fond on her, Mas’ Don. She only shows a bit o’ temper.”“Jem, she’ll think you’ve run away and deserted her.”“Safe, Mas’ Don. You see, I made up a bundle o’ wittles as if I was a-going, and she saw me take it out under my arm, and she called to me to stop, but I wouldn’t, because I was so waxy.”“And I made up a bundle too, Jem. I—I did half think of going away.”“Then you’ve done it now, my lad. My Sally will think I’ve forsook her.”“And they at home will think of me as a thief. Oh, fool—fool—fool!”“What’s the use o’ calling yourself a fool, Mas’ Don, when you means me all the time? Oh, my head, my head!”“Jem, we must escape.”“Escape? I on’y wish we could. Oh, my head: how it do ache.”“They will take us off to the tender, and then away in some ship, and they will not know at home where we are gone Jem, get up.”“What’s the good, sir? My head feels like feet, and if I tried to stand up I should go down flop!”“Let me help you, Jem. Here, give me your hand. How dark it is? Where’s your hand?”“Gently, my lad; that’s my hye. Arn’t much use here in the dark, but may want ’em by-and-by. That’s better. Thank ye, sir. Here, hold tight.”“Can’t you stand, Jem?”“Stand, sir? Yes: but what’s the matter? It’s like being in a round-about at the fair.”“You’ll be better soon.”“Better, sir? Well, I can’t be worse. Oh, my head, my head! I wish I’d got him as did it headed up in one of our barrels, I’d give him such a roll up and down the ware’us floor as ’ud make him as giddy as me.”“Now try and think, Jem,” said Don excitedly. “They must not believe at home that we are such cowards as to run away.”“No, sir; my Sally mustn’t think that.”“Then what shall we do?”“Try to get out, sir, of course.”“Can you walk?”“Well, sir, if I can’t, I’ll crawl. What yer going to do?”“Try the door. Perhaps they have left it unlocked.”“Not likely,” said Jem. “Wish I’d got a candle. It’s like being a rat in a box trap. Itisdark.”“This way, Jem. Your hand.”“All right, sir. Frontards: my hands don’t grow out o’ my back.”“That’s it. Now together. Let’s get to the wall.”There was a rustling noise and then a rattle.“Phew! Shins!” cried Jem. “Oh, dear me. That’s barrel staves, I know the feel on ’em. Such sharp edges, Mas’ Don. Mind you don’t tread on the edge of a hoop, or it’ll fly up and hit you right in the middle.”Flip!“There, I told you so. Hurt you much, my lad?”“Not very much, Jem. Now then; feel your way with me. Let’s go all round the place, perhaps there’s another way out.”“All right, sir. Well, it might be, but I say as it couldn’t be darker than this if you was brown sugar, and shut up in a barrel in the middle o’ the night.”“Now I am touching the wall, Jem,” said Don. “I’m going to feel all round. Can you hear anything?”“Only you speaking, my lad.”“Come along then.”“All right, Mas’ Don. My head aches as if it was a tub with the cooper at work hammering of it.”Don went slowly along the side of the great cellar, guiding himself in the intense darkness by running: his hands over the damp bricks; but there was nothing but bare wall till he had passed down two sides, and was half-way along the third, when he uttered a hasty ejaculation.“It’s all right, Jem. Here is a way into another cellar.”“Mind how you go, sir. Steady.”“Yes, but make haste.”“There’s a door,” whispered Don. “Loose my hand.”He hastily felt all over the door, but it was perfectly blank, not so much as a keyhole to be found, and though he pressed and strained at it, he could make no impression.“It’s no use, Jem. Let’s try the other door.”“I don’t believe there are no other door,” said Jem. “That’s the way out.”“No, no; the way out is on the other side.”“This here is t’other side,” said Jem, “only we arn’t over there now.”“I’m sure it can’t be.”“And I’m sure it can be, my lad. Nothing arn’t more puzzling than being shut up in the dark. You loses yourself directly, and then you can’t find yourself again.”“But the door where the men went out is over there.”“Yah! That it arn’t,” cried Jem. “Don’t throw your fisties about that how. That’s my nose.”“I’m very sorry, Jem. I did not mean—”“Course you didn’t, but that’s what I said. When you’re in the dark you don’t know where you are, nor where any one else is.”“Let’s try down that other side, and I’ll show you that you are wrong.”“Can’t show me, my lad. You may make me feel, but you did that just now when you hit me on the nose. Well? Fun’ it?”“No, not yet,” said Don, as he crept slowly along from the doorway; and then carefully on and on, till he must have come to the place from which they started.“No, not yet,” grumbled Jem. “Nor more you won’t if you go on for ever.”“I’m afraid you’re right, Jem.”“I’m right, and I arn’t afraid,” said Jem; “leastwise, save that my head’s going on aching for ever.”Don felt all round the cellar again, and then heaved a sigh.“Yes; there’s only one door, Jem. Could we break it down?”“I could if I’d some of the cooper’s tools,” said Jem, quietly; “but you can’t break strong doors with your fisties, and you can’t get out of brick cellars with your teeth.”“Of course, we’re underground.”“Ay! No doubt about that, Mas’ Don.”“Let’s knock and ask for a pencil and paper to send a message.”Jem uttered a loud chuckle as he seated himself on the floor.“I like that, Mas’ Don. ’Pon my word I do. Might just as well hit your head again the wall.”“Better use yours for a battering ram, Jem,” said Don, angrily. “It’s thicker than mine.”There was silence after this.“He’s sulky because of what I’ve said,” thought Don.“Oh, my poor head!” thought Jem. “How it do ache!”Then he began to think about Sally, and what she would say or do when she found that he did not come back.Just at the same time Don was reflecting upon his life of late, and how discontented he had been, and how he had longed to go away, while now he felt as if he would give anything to be back on his old stool in the office, writing hard, and trying his best to be satisfied with what seemed to be a peaceful, happy life.A terrible sensation of despair came over him, and the idea of being dragged off to a ship, and carried right away, was unbearable. What were glorious foreign lands with their wonders to one who would be thought of as a cowardly thief?As he leaned against a wall there in the darkness his busy brain pictured his stern-looking uncle telling his weeping mother that it was a disgrace to her to mourn over the loss of a son who could be guilty of such a crime, and then run away to avoid his punishment.“Oh! If I had only been a little wiser,” thought Don, “how much happier I might have been.”Then he forced himself to think out a way of escape, a little further conversation with Jem making him feel that he must depend upon himself, for poor Jem’s injury seemed to make him at times confused; in fact, he quite startled his fellow-prisoner by exclaiming suddenly,—“Now where did I put them keys?”“Jem!”“Eh? All right, Sally. ’Tarn’t daylight yet.”“Jem, my lad, don’t you know where you are?”“Don’t I tell you? Phew! My head. You there, Mas’ Don?”“Yes, Jem. How are you?”“Oh, lively, sir, lively; been asleep, I think. Keep a good heart, Mas’ Don, and—”“Hist! Here they come,” cried Don, as he saw the gleam of a light through the cracks of the door. “Jem, do you think you could make a dash of it as soon as they open the door?”“No, Mas’ Don, not now. My head’s all of a boom-whooz, and I seem to have no use in my legs.”“Oh!” ejaculated Don despairingly.“But never you mind me, my lad. You make a run for it, dive down low as soon as the door’s open. That’s how to get away.”Cling!clang!Two bolts were shot back and a flood—or after the intense darkness what seemed to be a flood—of light flashed into the cellar, as the bluff man entered with another bearing the lanthorn. Then there was a great deal of shuffling of feet as if heavy loads were being borne down some stone steps; and as Don looked eagerly at the party, it was to see four sailors, apparently wounded, perhaps dead, carried in and laid upon the floor.A thrill of horror ran through Don. He had heard of the acts of the press-gangs as he might have heard of any legend, and then they had passed from his mind; but now all this was being brought before him and exemplified in a way that was terribly real. These four men just carried in were the last victims of outrage, and his indignation seemed to be boiling up within him when the bluff-looking man said good-humouredly,—“That’s the way to get them, my lad. Those four fellows made themselves tipsy and went to sleep, merchant sailors; they’ll wake up to-morrow morning with bad headaches and in His Majesty’s Service. Fine lesson for them to keep sober.”Don looked at the men with disgust. A few moments before he felt indignant, and full of commiseration for them; but the bluff man’s words had swept all that away.Then, crossing to where the man stood by the lanthorn-bearer, Don laid his hand upon his arm.“You are not going to keep us, sir?” he said quietly. “My mother and my uncle will be very uneasy at my absence, and Jem—our man, has a young wife.”“No, no; can’t listen to you, my lad,” said the bluff man; “it’s very hard, I know, but the king’s ships must be manned—and boyed,” he added with a laugh.“But my mother?”“Yes, I’m sorry for your mother, but you’re too old to fret about her. We shall make a man of you, and that chap’s young wife will have to wait till he comes back.”“But you will let me send a message to them at home?”“To come and fetch you away, my lad? Well, hardly. We don’t give that facility to pressed men to get away. There, be patient; we will not keep you in this hole long.”He glanced at the four sleeping men, and turned slowly to go, giving Don a nod of the head, but, as he neared the door he paused.“Not very nice for a lad like you,” he said, not unkindly. “Here, bring these two out, my lads; we’ll stow them in the warehouse. Rather hard on the lad to shut him up with these swine. Here, come along.”A couple of the press-gang seized Don by the arms, and a couple more paid Jem Wimble the same attention, after which they were led up a flight of steps, the door was banged to and bolted, and directly after they were all standing on the floor of what had evidently been used as a tobacco warehouse, where the lanthorn light showed a rough step ladder leading up to another floor.“Where shall we put ’em, sir?” said a sailor.“Top floor and make fast,” said the bluff man.“But you will let me send word home?” began Don.“I shall send you back into that lock-up place below, and perhaps put you in irons,” said the man sternly. “Be content with what I am doing for you. Now then, up with you, quick!—”There was nothing for it but to obey, and with a heavy heart Don followed the man with the lanthorn as he led the way to the next floor, Jem coming next, and a guard of two well-armed men and their bluff superior closing up the rear.The floor they reached was exactly like the one they had left, and they ascended another step ladder to the next, and then to the next.“There’s a heap of bags and wrappers over yonder to lie down on, my lads,” said the bluff man. “There, go to sleep and forget your troubles. You shall have some prog in the morning. Now, my men, sharp’s the word.”They had ascended from floor to floor through trap-doors, and as Don looked anxiously at his captors, the man who carried the lanthorn stooped and raised a heavy door from the floor and held it and the light as his companions descended, following last and drawing down the heavy trap over his head.The door closed with a loud clap, a rusty bolt was shot, and then, as the two prisoners stood in the darkness listening, there was a rasping noise, and then a crash, which Don interpreted to mean that the heavy step ladder had been dragged away and half laid, half thrown upon the floor below. Then the sounds died away.“This is a happy sort o’ life, Mas’ Don,” said Jem, breaking the silence. “What’s to be done next? Oh! My head, my head!”“I don’t know, Jem,” said Don despondently. “It’s enough to make one wish one was dead.”“Dead! Wish one was dead, sir? Oh, come. It’s bad enough to be knocked down and have the headache. Dead! No, no. Where did he say them bags was?”“I don’t know, Jem.”“Well, let’s look. I want to lie down and have a sleep.”“Sleep? At a time like this!”“Why not, sir? I’m half asleep now. Can’t do anything better as I see.”“Jem,” said Don passionately, “we’re being punished for all our discontent and folly, and it seems more than I can bear.”“But we must bear it, sir. That’s what you’ve got to do when you’re punished. Don’t take on, sir. P’r’aps, it won’t seem so bad when it gets light. Here, help me find them bags he talked about.”Don was too deep in thought, for the face of his mother was before him, and he seemed to see the agony she suffered on his account.“Justly punished,” he kept muttering; “justly punished, and now it is too late—too late.”“Here y’are, Mas’ Don,” cried Jem; “lots of ’em, and I can’t help it, I must lie down, for my head feels as if it was going to tumble off.”Don heard him make a scuffling noise, as if he were very busy moving some sacks.“There!” Jem cried at last; “that’s about it. Now, Mas’ Don, I’ve made you up a tidy bed; come and lie down.”“No, Jem, no; I’m not sleepy.”“Then I must,” muttered Jem; and after a little more scuffling noise all was still for a few minutes, after which there was a regular heavy breathing, which told that the great trouble he was in had not been sufficient to keep Jem Wimble awake.Don stood for some time in the darkness, but by degrees a wretched feeling of weariness came over him, and he sat down painfully upon the floor, drawing his knees up to his chin, embracing them, and laying his head upon them.He wanted to think of his position, of his folly, and of the trouble which it had brought upon him. Jem’s heavy breathing came regularly from somewhere to his left, and he found himself, as he crouched together there in the darkness, envying the poor fellow, much as he was injured.“But then he has not so much on his mind as I have,” thought Don. “Once let me get clear away from here, how different I will be.”

“What’s the matter?” cried Don, starting up, as there was the sound of bolts being shot back, and a light shone in upon the darkness.

Don could hardly believe it possible, but it was quite true. In spite of pain and anxiety, weariness had mastered him, and he had been asleep.

As the light shone in, Don could see Jem lying, apparently asleep, but in a very uncomfortable position, and that they were in a low, arched cellar, one which at some time had been used for storing casks; for in one corner there were some mouldy staves, and, close by, a barrel, whose hoops seemed to have slipped down, so that it was in a state of collapse.

He had no time to see more, for half a dozen well-armed sailors came in after a bluff-looking man, who crossed at once to the prisoners.

“Hold the lanthorn here,” he said sharply. “Now let’s have a look at you.”

He examined their injuries in an experienced way, roughly, but not unkindly.

“All right, my lad,” he said to Don; “you will not die this time. Now you.”

He spent longer over Jem, who roused up and looked at him curiously, as if he did not quite understand.

“Been rather rough with this one, my lads.”

“Couldn’t help it,” said one of the sailors; “he fote so hard. So did this young chap too.”

“Nothing wrong with him, I daresay,” said the bluff man. “No bones broken. All right in a day or two.”

Don had been silent while Jem was examined, for he felt that this man was either a doctor, or one who knew something about surgery; but as soon as he had finished, the boy, whose indignation had been growing, turned to him haughtily.

“Now, sir!” he exclaimed, “have the goodness to explain the meaning of this outrage.”

“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” cried the bluff man.

“It is nothing to laugh at, sir. I insist upon knowing why we have been ill-used and dragged here by your men.”

“Well crowed, my young cockerel,” said the bluff man, laughing. “They said you fought well with your fists, so you can with your tongue.”

“Insulting us now you have us down will not save you,” cried Don fiercely.

“No, my lord,” said the bluff man, as Jem rose up, shook his head, and stood by Don.

The men laughed.

“You coward!” cried Don in hot anger; “but you shall all suffer for it. My uncle will set the law to work, and have you all punished.”

“Really, this is growing serious,” said the bluff man in mock alarm.

“You will find it no laughing matter. You have made a mistake this time; so now let us go at once.”

“Well, I would with pleasure, my noble captain,” said the bluff man, with mock solemnity; “but his Majesty is in sore need just now of some dashing young fellows who can fight; and he said to our first lieutenant, ‘short of men, Mr Morrison? Dear me, are you? Well then, the best thing you can do is to send round Bristol city, and persuade a few of the brave and daring young fellows there to come on board my good shipGreat Briton, and help me till I’ve settled my quarrel with my enemies,’ so we have persuaded you.”

“You are adding insult to what you have done, sir. Now let us pass. You and your miserable press-gang shall smart for this. Stand aside, sir.”

“What, after taking all this trouble? Hardly.”

“Here, I’m all right again now, Mas’ Don. Press-gang, eh?” cried Jem. “Here, let me get at him.”

Jem made a dash at the bluff man, but his arms were seized, and he was held back, struggling hard.

“Ah, I wish we had fifty of you,” said the bluff man. “Don’t hurt him, my lads. There, there, steady; you can’t do anything. That will do. Save your strength to fight for the king.”

“You cowards!” cried Jem, who suddenly turned so faint that the men easily mastered him, laid him on his back, and one held him down, while another held Don till the rest had passed out, the bluff man only standing at the entrance with another holding up the light.

“Come along,” he shouted; and the man who held Jem left him, and ran out.

“Do you hear?” cried the bluff man again. “Come along!”

“How can I, when he’s sticking on like a rat?” growled the man who held Don. “Did you ever see such a young ruffian?”

The bluff man took a stride or two forward, gripped Don by the shoulder, and forced him from his hold.

“Don’t be a young fool,” he said firmly, but not unkindly. “It’s plucky, but it’s no good. Can’t you see we’re seven to one?”

“I don’t care if you’re a hundred,” raged Don, struggling hard, but vainly.

“Bravo, boy! That’s right; but we’re English, and going to be your messmates. Wait till you get at the French; then you may talk like that.”

He caught Don by the hips, and with a dexterous Cornish wrestling trick, raised him from the ground, and then threw him lightly beside Jem.

“You’ll do,” he said. “I thought we’d let you go, because you’re such a boy, but you’ve got the pluck of a man, and you’ll soon grow.”

He stepped quickly to the entrance, and Don struggled to his feet, and dashed at him again, but only flung himself against the door, which was banged in his face, and locked.

“The cowards!” panted Don, as he stood there in the darkness. “Why, Jem!”

“Yes, Mas’ Don.”

“They won’t let us go.”

“No, Mas’ Don, that they won’t.”

“I never thought the press-gang would dare to do such a thing as this.”

“I did, sir. They’d press the monkeys out of a wild beast show if they got the chance.”

“But what are we to do?”

“I d’know, sir.”

“We must let my uncle know at once.”

“Yes, sir, I would,” said Jem grimly; “I’d holloa.”

“Don’t be stupid. What’s the good?”

“Not a bit, sir.”

“But my uncle—my mother, what will they think?”

“I’ll tell yer, sir.”

“Yes?”

“They’ll think you’ve run away, so as not to have to go ’fore the magistrates.”

“Jem, what are you saying? Think I’m a thief?”

“I didn’t say that, sir; but so sure as you don’t go home, they’ll think you’ve cut away.”

“Jem!” cried Don in a despairing voice, as he recalled the bundle he had made up, and the drawer left open.

“Well, sir, you was allus a-wanting to go abroad, and get away from the desk,” said Jem ill-naturedly—“oh, how my head do ache!—and now you’ve got your chance.”

“But that was all nonsense, Jem. I was only thinking then like a stupid, discontented boy. I don’t want to go. What will they say?”

“Dunno what they’ll say,” said Jem dolefully, “but I know what my Sally will say. I used to talk about going and leaving her, but that was because I too was a hidyut. I didn’t want to go and leave her, poor little lass. Too fond on her, Mas’ Don. She only shows a bit o’ temper.”

“Jem, she’ll think you’ve run away and deserted her.”

“Safe, Mas’ Don. You see, I made up a bundle o’ wittles as if I was a-going, and she saw me take it out under my arm, and she called to me to stop, but I wouldn’t, because I was so waxy.”

“And I made up a bundle too, Jem. I—I did half think of going away.”

“Then you’ve done it now, my lad. My Sally will think I’ve forsook her.”

“And they at home will think of me as a thief. Oh, fool—fool—fool!”

“What’s the use o’ calling yourself a fool, Mas’ Don, when you means me all the time? Oh, my head, my head!”

“Jem, we must escape.”

“Escape? I on’y wish we could. Oh, my head: how it do ache.”

“They will take us off to the tender, and then away in some ship, and they will not know at home where we are gone Jem, get up.”

“What’s the good, sir? My head feels like feet, and if I tried to stand up I should go down flop!”

“Let me help you, Jem. Here, give me your hand. How dark it is? Where’s your hand?”

“Gently, my lad; that’s my hye. Arn’t much use here in the dark, but may want ’em by-and-by. That’s better. Thank ye, sir. Here, hold tight.”

“Can’t you stand, Jem?”

“Stand, sir? Yes: but what’s the matter? It’s like being in a round-about at the fair.”

“You’ll be better soon.”

“Better, sir? Well, I can’t be worse. Oh, my head, my head! I wish I’d got him as did it headed up in one of our barrels, I’d give him such a roll up and down the ware’us floor as ’ud make him as giddy as me.”

“Now try and think, Jem,” said Don excitedly. “They must not believe at home that we are such cowards as to run away.”

“No, sir; my Sally mustn’t think that.”

“Then what shall we do?”

“Try to get out, sir, of course.”

“Can you walk?”

“Well, sir, if I can’t, I’ll crawl. What yer going to do?”

“Try the door. Perhaps they have left it unlocked.”

“Not likely,” said Jem. “Wish I’d got a candle. It’s like being a rat in a box trap. Itisdark.”

“This way, Jem. Your hand.”

“All right, sir. Frontards: my hands don’t grow out o’ my back.”

“That’s it. Now together. Let’s get to the wall.”

There was a rustling noise and then a rattle.

“Phew! Shins!” cried Jem. “Oh, dear me. That’s barrel staves, I know the feel on ’em. Such sharp edges, Mas’ Don. Mind you don’t tread on the edge of a hoop, or it’ll fly up and hit you right in the middle.”

Flip!

“There, I told you so. Hurt you much, my lad?”

“Not very much, Jem. Now then; feel your way with me. Let’s go all round the place, perhaps there’s another way out.”

“All right, sir. Well, it might be, but I say as it couldn’t be darker than this if you was brown sugar, and shut up in a barrel in the middle o’ the night.”

“Now I am touching the wall, Jem,” said Don. “I’m going to feel all round. Can you hear anything?”

“Only you speaking, my lad.”

“Come along then.”

“All right, Mas’ Don. My head aches as if it was a tub with the cooper at work hammering of it.”

Don went slowly along the side of the great cellar, guiding himself in the intense darkness by running: his hands over the damp bricks; but there was nothing but bare wall till he had passed down two sides, and was half-way along the third, when he uttered a hasty ejaculation.

“It’s all right, Jem. Here is a way into another cellar.”

“Mind how you go, sir. Steady.”

“Yes, but make haste.”

“There’s a door,” whispered Don. “Loose my hand.”

He hastily felt all over the door, but it was perfectly blank, not so much as a keyhole to be found, and though he pressed and strained at it, he could make no impression.

“It’s no use, Jem. Let’s try the other door.”

“I don’t believe there are no other door,” said Jem. “That’s the way out.”

“No, no; the way out is on the other side.”

“This here is t’other side,” said Jem, “only we arn’t over there now.”

“I’m sure it can’t be.”

“And I’m sure it can be, my lad. Nothing arn’t more puzzling than being shut up in the dark. You loses yourself directly, and then you can’t find yourself again.”

“But the door where the men went out is over there.”

“Yah! That it arn’t,” cried Jem. “Don’t throw your fisties about that how. That’s my nose.”

“I’m very sorry, Jem. I did not mean—”

“Course you didn’t, but that’s what I said. When you’re in the dark you don’t know where you are, nor where any one else is.”

“Let’s try down that other side, and I’ll show you that you are wrong.”

“Can’t show me, my lad. You may make me feel, but you did that just now when you hit me on the nose. Well? Fun’ it?”

“No, not yet,” said Don, as he crept slowly along from the doorway; and then carefully on and on, till he must have come to the place from which they started.

“No, not yet,” grumbled Jem. “Nor more you won’t if you go on for ever.”

“I’m afraid you’re right, Jem.”

“I’m right, and I arn’t afraid,” said Jem; “leastwise, save that my head’s going on aching for ever.”

Don felt all round the cellar again, and then heaved a sigh.

“Yes; there’s only one door, Jem. Could we break it down?”

“I could if I’d some of the cooper’s tools,” said Jem, quietly; “but you can’t break strong doors with your fisties, and you can’t get out of brick cellars with your teeth.”

“Of course, we’re underground.”

“Ay! No doubt about that, Mas’ Don.”

“Let’s knock and ask for a pencil and paper to send a message.”

Jem uttered a loud chuckle as he seated himself on the floor.

“I like that, Mas’ Don. ’Pon my word I do. Might just as well hit your head again the wall.”

“Better use yours for a battering ram, Jem,” said Don, angrily. “It’s thicker than mine.”

There was silence after this.

“He’s sulky because of what I’ve said,” thought Don.

“Oh, my poor head!” thought Jem. “How it do ache!”

Then he began to think about Sally, and what she would say or do when she found that he did not come back.

Just at the same time Don was reflecting upon his life of late, and how discontented he had been, and how he had longed to go away, while now he felt as if he would give anything to be back on his old stool in the office, writing hard, and trying his best to be satisfied with what seemed to be a peaceful, happy life.

A terrible sensation of despair came over him, and the idea of being dragged off to a ship, and carried right away, was unbearable. What were glorious foreign lands with their wonders to one who would be thought of as a cowardly thief?

As he leaned against a wall there in the darkness his busy brain pictured his stern-looking uncle telling his weeping mother that it was a disgrace to her to mourn over the loss of a son who could be guilty of such a crime, and then run away to avoid his punishment.

“Oh! If I had only been a little wiser,” thought Don, “how much happier I might have been.”

Then he forced himself to think out a way of escape, a little further conversation with Jem making him feel that he must depend upon himself, for poor Jem’s injury seemed to make him at times confused; in fact, he quite startled his fellow-prisoner by exclaiming suddenly,—

“Now where did I put them keys?”

“Jem!”

“Eh? All right, Sally. ’Tarn’t daylight yet.”

“Jem, my lad, don’t you know where you are?”

“Don’t I tell you? Phew! My head. You there, Mas’ Don?”

“Yes, Jem. How are you?”

“Oh, lively, sir, lively; been asleep, I think. Keep a good heart, Mas’ Don, and—”

“Hist! Here they come,” cried Don, as he saw the gleam of a light through the cracks of the door. “Jem, do you think you could make a dash of it as soon as they open the door?”

“No, Mas’ Don, not now. My head’s all of a boom-whooz, and I seem to have no use in my legs.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Don despairingly.

“But never you mind me, my lad. You make a run for it, dive down low as soon as the door’s open. That’s how to get away.”

Cling!clang!

Two bolts were shot back and a flood—or after the intense darkness what seemed to be a flood—of light flashed into the cellar, as the bluff man entered with another bearing the lanthorn. Then there was a great deal of shuffling of feet as if heavy loads were being borne down some stone steps; and as Don looked eagerly at the party, it was to see four sailors, apparently wounded, perhaps dead, carried in and laid upon the floor.

A thrill of horror ran through Don. He had heard of the acts of the press-gangs as he might have heard of any legend, and then they had passed from his mind; but now all this was being brought before him and exemplified in a way that was terribly real. These four men just carried in were the last victims of outrage, and his indignation seemed to be boiling up within him when the bluff-looking man said good-humouredly,—

“That’s the way to get them, my lad. Those four fellows made themselves tipsy and went to sleep, merchant sailors; they’ll wake up to-morrow morning with bad headaches and in His Majesty’s Service. Fine lesson for them to keep sober.”

Don looked at the men with disgust. A few moments before he felt indignant, and full of commiseration for them; but the bluff man’s words had swept all that away.

Then, crossing to where the man stood by the lanthorn-bearer, Don laid his hand upon his arm.

“You are not going to keep us, sir?” he said quietly. “My mother and my uncle will be very uneasy at my absence, and Jem—our man, has a young wife.”

“No, no; can’t listen to you, my lad,” said the bluff man; “it’s very hard, I know, but the king’s ships must be manned—and boyed,” he added with a laugh.

“But my mother?”

“Yes, I’m sorry for your mother, but you’re too old to fret about her. We shall make a man of you, and that chap’s young wife will have to wait till he comes back.”

“But you will let me send a message to them at home?”

“To come and fetch you away, my lad? Well, hardly. We don’t give that facility to pressed men to get away. There, be patient; we will not keep you in this hole long.”

He glanced at the four sleeping men, and turned slowly to go, giving Don a nod of the head, but, as he neared the door he paused.

“Not very nice for a lad like you,” he said, not unkindly. “Here, bring these two out, my lads; we’ll stow them in the warehouse. Rather hard on the lad to shut him up with these swine. Here, come along.”

A couple of the press-gang seized Don by the arms, and a couple more paid Jem Wimble the same attention, after which they were led up a flight of steps, the door was banged to and bolted, and directly after they were all standing on the floor of what had evidently been used as a tobacco warehouse, where the lanthorn light showed a rough step ladder leading up to another floor.

“Where shall we put ’em, sir?” said a sailor.

“Top floor and make fast,” said the bluff man.

“But you will let me send word home?” began Don.

“I shall send you back into that lock-up place below, and perhaps put you in irons,” said the man sternly. “Be content with what I am doing for you. Now then, up with you, quick!—”

There was nothing for it but to obey, and with a heavy heart Don followed the man with the lanthorn as he led the way to the next floor, Jem coming next, and a guard of two well-armed men and their bluff superior closing up the rear.

The floor they reached was exactly like the one they had left, and they ascended another step ladder to the next, and then to the next.

“There’s a heap of bags and wrappers over yonder to lie down on, my lads,” said the bluff man. “There, go to sleep and forget your troubles. You shall have some prog in the morning. Now, my men, sharp’s the word.”

They had ascended from floor to floor through trap-doors, and as Don looked anxiously at his captors, the man who carried the lanthorn stooped and raised a heavy door from the floor and held it and the light as his companions descended, following last and drawing down the heavy trap over his head.

The door closed with a loud clap, a rusty bolt was shot, and then, as the two prisoners stood in the darkness listening, there was a rasping noise, and then a crash, which Don interpreted to mean that the heavy step ladder had been dragged away and half laid, half thrown upon the floor below. Then the sounds died away.

“This is a happy sort o’ life, Mas’ Don,” said Jem, breaking the silence. “What’s to be done next? Oh! My head, my head!”

“I don’t know, Jem,” said Don despondently. “It’s enough to make one wish one was dead.”

“Dead! Wish one was dead, sir? Oh, come. It’s bad enough to be knocked down and have the headache. Dead! No, no. Where did he say them bags was?”

“I don’t know, Jem.”

“Well, let’s look. I want to lie down and have a sleep.”

“Sleep? At a time like this!”

“Why not, sir? I’m half asleep now. Can’t do anything better as I see.”

“Jem,” said Don passionately, “we’re being punished for all our discontent and folly, and it seems more than I can bear.”

“But we must bear it, sir. That’s what you’ve got to do when you’re punished. Don’t take on, sir. P’r’aps, it won’t seem so bad when it gets light. Here, help me find them bags he talked about.”

Don was too deep in thought, for the face of his mother was before him, and he seemed to see the agony she suffered on his account.

“Justly punished,” he kept muttering; “justly punished, and now it is too late—too late.”

“Here y’are, Mas’ Don,” cried Jem; “lots of ’em, and I can’t help it, I must lie down, for my head feels as if it was going to tumble off.”

Don heard him make a scuffling noise, as if he were very busy moving some sacks.

“There!” Jem cried at last; “that’s about it. Now, Mas’ Don, I’ve made you up a tidy bed; come and lie down.”

“No, Jem, no; I’m not sleepy.”

“Then I must,” muttered Jem; and after a little more scuffling noise all was still for a few minutes, after which there was a regular heavy breathing, which told that the great trouble he was in had not been sufficient to keep Jem Wimble awake.

Don stood for some time in the darkness, but by degrees a wretched feeling of weariness came over him, and he sat down painfully upon the floor, drawing his knees up to his chin, embracing them, and laying his head upon them.

He wanted to think of his position, of his folly, and of the trouble which it had brought upon him. Jem’s heavy breathing came regularly from somewhere to his left, and he found himself, as he crouched together there in the darkness, envying the poor fellow, much as he was injured.

“But then he has not so much on his mind as I have,” thought Don. “Once let me get clear away from here, how different I will be.”

Chapter Thirteen.How to escape?Rumble!Bump!Don started and stared, for something had shaken him as if a sudden blow had been given against the floor.What did it all mean? Where was he? What window was that through which the sun shone brightly, and why was he in that rough loft, in company with a man lying asleep on some sacks?Memory filled up the vacuum directly, and he knew that his head was aching, and that he had been fast asleep.Crash!That was a bolt shot back, and the noise which awakened him must have been the big step ladder placed against the beam beneath the trap-door.As Don watched he saw the trap, like a square piece of the floor, rise up slowly, and a rough, red face appear, framed in hair.“Ship ahoy!” shouted the owner of the face. “What cheer, messmates? Want your hot water?”Just then the man, whose hands were out of sight, and who had kept on pushing up the trap-door with his head, gave it a final thrust, and the door fell over with a loudflap, which made Jem Wimble sit up, with his face so swollen and bruised that his eyes were half-closed; and this and his dirty face gave him an aspect that was more ludicrous than strange.“What’s the matter?” he said sharply. “Who are you? I—where—was—to me. Have I been a-dreaming? No: we’re pressed!”“Pressed you are, my lads; and Bosun Jones has sent you up some hot slops and soft tack. There you are. Find your own tablecloth and silliver spoons.”He placed a large blue jug before them, in which was some steaming compound, covered by a large breakfast cup, stuck in the mouth of the jug, while on a plate was a fair-sized pile of bread and butter.“There you are, messmates; say your grace and fall to.”“Look here,” said Don quickly. “You know we were taken by the press-gang last night?”“Do I know? Why, didn’t I help?”“Oh!” ejaculated Don, with a look of revulsion, which he tried to conceal. “Look here,” he said; “if you will take a message for me to my mother, in Jamaica Street, you shall have a guinea.”“Well, that’s handsome, anyhow,” said the man, laughing. “What am I to say to the old lady?”“That we have been seized by the press-gang, and my uncle is to try and get us away.”“That all?”“Yes, that’s all. Will you go?”“Hadn’t you better have your breakfuss?”“Breakfast? No,” said Don. “I can’t eat.”“Better. Keep you going, my lad.”“Will you take my message?”“No, I won’t.”“You shall have two guineas.”“Where are they?”“My mother will gladly give them to you.”“Dessay she will.”“And you will go?”“Do you know what a bosun’s mate is, my lad?”“I? No. I know nothing about the sea.”“You will afore long. Well, I’ll tell you; bosun’s mate’s a gentleman kep’ aboard ship to scratch the crew’s backs.”“You are laughing at me,” cried Don angrily.“Not a bit of it, my lad. If I was to do what you want, I should be tied up to-morrow, and have my back scratched.”“Flogged?”“That’s it.”“For doing a kind act? For saving my poor mother from trouble and anxiety?”“For not doing my dooty, my lad. There, a voyage or two won’t hurt you. Why, I was a pressed man, and look at me.”“Main-top ahoy! Are you coming down?” came from below.“Ay, ay, sir!” shouted the sailor.“Wasn’t that the man who had us shut up here?” cried Don.“To be sure: Bosun Jones,” said the man, running to the trap and beginning to descend.“You’ll take my message?”“Nay, not I,” said the man, shaking his head. “There, eat your breakfuss, and keep your head to the wind, my lads.”Bang!The door was shut heavily and the rusty bolt shot. Then the two prisoners listened to the descending footsteps and to the murmur of voices from below, after which Don looked across the steaming jug at Jem, and Jem returned the stare.“Mornin’, Mas’ Don,” he said. “Rum game, arn’t it?”“Do you think he’ll take my message, Jem?”“Not a bit on it, sir. You may take your oath o’ that.”“Will they take us aboard ship?”“Yes, sir, and make sailors on us, and your uncle’s yard ’ll go to rack and ruin; and there was two screws out o’ one o’ the shutter hinges as I were going to put in to-day.”“Jem, we must escape them.”“All right, Mas’ Don, sir. ’Arter breakfast.”“Breakfast? Who is to eat breakfast?”“I am, sir. Feels as if it would do me good.”“But we must escape, Jem—escape.”“Yes, sir; that’s right,” said Jem, taking off the cup, and sniffing at the jug. “Coffee, sir. Got pretty well knocked about last night, and I’m as sore this morning as if they’d been rolling casks all over me. But a man must eat.”“Eat then, and drink then, for goodness’ sake,” cried Don impatiently.“Thankye, sir,” said Jem; and he poured out a cup of steaming coffee, sipped it, sipped again, took three or four mouthfuls of bread and butter, and then drained the cup.“Mas’ Don!” he cried, “it’s lovely. Do have a cup. Make you see clear.”As he spoke he refilled the mug and handed it to Don, who took it mechanically, and placed it to his lips, one drop suggesting another till he had finished the cup.“Now a bit o’ bread and butter, Mas’ Don?”Don shook his head, but took the top piece, and began mechanically to eat, while Jem partook of another cup, there being a liberal allowance of some three pints.“That’s the way, sir. Wonderful what a difference breakfuss makes in a man. Eat away, sir; and if they don’t look out we’ll give them press-gang.”“Yes, but how, Jem? How?”“Lots o’ ways, sir. We’ll get away, for one thing, or fasten that there trap-door down; and then they’ll be the prisoners, not us. ’Nother cup, sir? Go on with the bread and butter. I say, sir, do I look lively?”“Lively?”“I mean much knocked about? My face feels as if the skin was too tight, and as if I couldn’t get on my hat.”“It does not matter, Jem,” said Don, quietly. “You have no hat.”“More I haven’t. I remember feeling it come off, and it wasn’t half wore out. Have some more coffee, Mas’ Don. ’Tarnt so good as my Sally makes. I’d forgot all about her just then. Wonder whether she’s eating her breakfast?”Don sighed and went on eating. He was horribly low-spirited, but his youthful appetite once started, he felt the need of food, and kept on in silence, passing and receiving the cup till all was gone.“That job’s done,” said Jem, placing the jug on the plate, and the cup in the mouth of the jug. “Now then, I’m ready, Mas’ Don. You said escape, didn’t you, sir?”“Yes. What shall we do?”“Well, we can’t go down that way, sir, because the trap-door’s bolted.”“There is the window, Jem.”“Skylights, you mean, sir,” said Jem, looking up at the sloping panes in the roof. “Well, let’s have a look. Will you get a-top o’ my shoulders, or shall I get a-top o’ yourn?”“I couldn’t bear you, Jem.”“Then up you gets, my lad, like the tumblers do at the fair.”It seemed easy enough to get up and stand on the sturdy fellow’s shoulders, but upon putting it to the test, Don found it very hard, and after a couple of failures he gave up, and they stood together looking up at the sloping window, which was far beyond their reach.“Dessay it’s fastened, so that we couldn’t open it,” said Jem.“The fox said the grapes were sour when he could not get at them, Jem.”“That’s true, Mas’ Don. Well, how are we to get up?”They looked round the loft, but, with the exception of the old sacking lying at one end, the place was bare.“Here, come to the end, Jem, and let me have another try,” said Don.“Right, sir; come on,” cried Jem; and going right to the end of the loft, he bent his body a little and leaned his hands against the wall.This simplified matters.“Stand fast, Jem,” cried Don, and taking a spring, he landed upon his companion’s broad back, leap-frog fashion, but only to jump off again.“What’s the matter, Mas’ Don?”“Only going to take off my shoes.”“Ah, ’twill be better. I didn’t grumble before, but you did hurt, sir.”Don slipped off his shoes, uttered a word or two of warning, and once more mounted on Jem’s back. It was easy then to get into a kneeling, and then to a standing, position, the wall being at hand to steady him.“That’s your sort, Mas’ Don. Now hold fast, and step up on to my shoulders as I rise myself up; that’s the way,” he continued, slowly straightening himself, and placing his hands behind Don’s legs, as he stood up, steadily, facing the wall.“What next, Jem?”“Next, sir? Why, I’m going to walk slowly back under the window, for you to try and open it, and look out and see where we are. Ready?”“Yes.”“Hold tight, sir.”“But there’s nothing to hold by, Jem, when you move away.”“Then you must stand fast, sir, and I’ll balance you like. I can do it.”Don drew a long breath, and felt no faith, for as soon as Jem moved steadily from the wall, his ability in balancing was not great.“Stand firm, sir. I’ve got you,” he said.“Am I too heavy, Jem?”“Heavy? No, sir; I could carry two on you. Stand fast; ’tarn’t far. Stand fast. That’s your sort. Stand—oh!”Everything depended upon him, and poor Jem did his best; but after three or four steps Don felt that he was going, and to save himself from a fall he tried to jump lightly down.This would have been easy enough had not Jem been so earnest. He, too, felt that it was all wrong, and to save his companion, he tightened his hold of the calves of Don’s legs as the lad stood erect on his shoulders.The consequence was that he gave Don sufficient check as he leaped to throw him off his balance; and in his effort to save him, Jem lost his own, and both came down with a crash and sat up and rubbed and looked at each other.“Arn’t hurt, are you, Mas’ Don?”“Not hurt?” grumbled Don. “I am hurt horribly.”“I’m very sorry, sir; so am I. But I arn’t broke nowhere! Are you?”“Broken? No!” said Don rising. “There, let’s try again.”“To be sure, sir. Come, I like that.”“Look here, Jem. When you straighten up, let me steady myself with my hands on the sloping ceiling there; now try.”The former process was gone through, after listening to find all silent below; and Don stood erect once more, supporting himself by the wall.“Now edge round gently, Jem. That’s right.”Jem obeyed, and by progressing very slowly, they got to within about ten feet of the window, which Don saw that he could reach easily, when the balance was lost once more.“Don’t hold, Jem!” cried Don; and he leaped backwards, to come down all right this time.By no means discouraged, they went back to the end; and this time, by progressing more slowly, the window was reached, and, to their great delight, Don found that it was fastened inside, opening outwards by means of a couple of hinges at the highest end, and provided with a ratchet, to keep it open to any distance required.“Can you bear me if I try to open it, Jem?”“Can I? Ah!”Jem was a true bearer, standing as fast as a small elephant as Don opened the window, and then supporting himself by a beam which ran across the opening, thrust out his head and surveyed the exterior.He was not long in making out their position—in the top floor of a warehouse, the roof sloping, so that escape along it was impossible, while facing him was the blank wall of a higher building, evidently on the other side of a narrow alley. Don looked to right, but there was no means of making their position known so as to ask for help. To the left he was no better off, and seeing that the place had been well chosen as a temporary lock-up for the impressed men, Don prepared to descend.“Better shut the window fust, Mas’ Don.”The suggestion was taken, and then Don leaped down and faced his fellow-prisoner, repeating the information he had roughly communicated before.“Faces a alley, eh?” said Jem. “Can’t we go along the roof.”“I don’t believe a cat could go in safety, Jem.”“Well, we aren’t cats, Mas’ Don, are we? Faces a alley, eh? Wasn’t there no windows opposit’?”“Nothing but a blank wall.”“Well, it’s all right, Mas’ Don. We’d better set to work. Only wants a rope with one end fastened in here, and then we could slide down.”“Yes,” said Don gloomily; “the window is unfastened, and the way clear, but where’s the rope?”“There,” said Jem, and he pointed to the end of the loft.

Rumble!Bump!

Don started and stared, for something had shaken him as if a sudden blow had been given against the floor.

What did it all mean? Where was he? What window was that through which the sun shone brightly, and why was he in that rough loft, in company with a man lying asleep on some sacks?

Memory filled up the vacuum directly, and he knew that his head was aching, and that he had been fast asleep.

Crash!

That was a bolt shot back, and the noise which awakened him must have been the big step ladder placed against the beam beneath the trap-door.

As Don watched he saw the trap, like a square piece of the floor, rise up slowly, and a rough, red face appear, framed in hair.

“Ship ahoy!” shouted the owner of the face. “What cheer, messmates? Want your hot water?”

Just then the man, whose hands were out of sight, and who had kept on pushing up the trap-door with his head, gave it a final thrust, and the door fell over with a loudflap, which made Jem Wimble sit up, with his face so swollen and bruised that his eyes were half-closed; and this and his dirty face gave him an aspect that was more ludicrous than strange.

“What’s the matter?” he said sharply. “Who are you? I—where—was—to me. Have I been a-dreaming? No: we’re pressed!”

“Pressed you are, my lads; and Bosun Jones has sent you up some hot slops and soft tack. There you are. Find your own tablecloth and silliver spoons.”

He placed a large blue jug before them, in which was some steaming compound, covered by a large breakfast cup, stuck in the mouth of the jug, while on a plate was a fair-sized pile of bread and butter.

“There you are, messmates; say your grace and fall to.”

“Look here,” said Don quickly. “You know we were taken by the press-gang last night?”

“Do I know? Why, didn’t I help?”

“Oh!” ejaculated Don, with a look of revulsion, which he tried to conceal. “Look here,” he said; “if you will take a message for me to my mother, in Jamaica Street, you shall have a guinea.”

“Well, that’s handsome, anyhow,” said the man, laughing. “What am I to say to the old lady?”

“That we have been seized by the press-gang, and my uncle is to try and get us away.”

“That all?”

“Yes, that’s all. Will you go?”

“Hadn’t you better have your breakfuss?”

“Breakfast? No,” said Don. “I can’t eat.”

“Better. Keep you going, my lad.”

“Will you take my message?”

“No, I won’t.”

“You shall have two guineas.”

“Where are they?”

“My mother will gladly give them to you.”

“Dessay she will.”

“And you will go?”

“Do you know what a bosun’s mate is, my lad?”

“I? No. I know nothing about the sea.”

“You will afore long. Well, I’ll tell you; bosun’s mate’s a gentleman kep’ aboard ship to scratch the crew’s backs.”

“You are laughing at me,” cried Don angrily.

“Not a bit of it, my lad. If I was to do what you want, I should be tied up to-morrow, and have my back scratched.”

“Flogged?”

“That’s it.”

“For doing a kind act? For saving my poor mother from trouble and anxiety?”

“For not doing my dooty, my lad. There, a voyage or two won’t hurt you. Why, I was a pressed man, and look at me.”

“Main-top ahoy! Are you coming down?” came from below.

“Ay, ay, sir!” shouted the sailor.

“Wasn’t that the man who had us shut up here?” cried Don.

“To be sure: Bosun Jones,” said the man, running to the trap and beginning to descend.

“You’ll take my message?”

“Nay, not I,” said the man, shaking his head. “There, eat your breakfuss, and keep your head to the wind, my lads.”

Bang!

The door was shut heavily and the rusty bolt shot. Then the two prisoners listened to the descending footsteps and to the murmur of voices from below, after which Don looked across the steaming jug at Jem, and Jem returned the stare.

“Mornin’, Mas’ Don,” he said. “Rum game, arn’t it?”

“Do you think he’ll take my message, Jem?”

“Not a bit on it, sir. You may take your oath o’ that.”

“Will they take us aboard ship?”

“Yes, sir, and make sailors on us, and your uncle’s yard ’ll go to rack and ruin; and there was two screws out o’ one o’ the shutter hinges as I were going to put in to-day.”

“Jem, we must escape them.”

“All right, Mas’ Don, sir. ’Arter breakfast.”

“Breakfast? Who is to eat breakfast?”

“I am, sir. Feels as if it would do me good.”

“But we must escape, Jem—escape.”

“Yes, sir; that’s right,” said Jem, taking off the cup, and sniffing at the jug. “Coffee, sir. Got pretty well knocked about last night, and I’m as sore this morning as if they’d been rolling casks all over me. But a man must eat.”

“Eat then, and drink then, for goodness’ sake,” cried Don impatiently.

“Thankye, sir,” said Jem; and he poured out a cup of steaming coffee, sipped it, sipped again, took three or four mouthfuls of bread and butter, and then drained the cup.

“Mas’ Don!” he cried, “it’s lovely. Do have a cup. Make you see clear.”

As he spoke he refilled the mug and handed it to Don, who took it mechanically, and placed it to his lips, one drop suggesting another till he had finished the cup.

“Now a bit o’ bread and butter, Mas’ Don?”

Don shook his head, but took the top piece, and began mechanically to eat, while Jem partook of another cup, there being a liberal allowance of some three pints.

“That’s the way, sir. Wonderful what a difference breakfuss makes in a man. Eat away, sir; and if they don’t look out we’ll give them press-gang.”

“Yes, but how, Jem? How?”

“Lots o’ ways, sir. We’ll get away, for one thing, or fasten that there trap-door down; and then they’ll be the prisoners, not us. ’Nother cup, sir? Go on with the bread and butter. I say, sir, do I look lively?”

“Lively?”

“I mean much knocked about? My face feels as if the skin was too tight, and as if I couldn’t get on my hat.”

“It does not matter, Jem,” said Don, quietly. “You have no hat.”

“More I haven’t. I remember feeling it come off, and it wasn’t half wore out. Have some more coffee, Mas’ Don. ’Tarnt so good as my Sally makes. I’d forgot all about her just then. Wonder whether she’s eating her breakfast?”

Don sighed and went on eating. He was horribly low-spirited, but his youthful appetite once started, he felt the need of food, and kept on in silence, passing and receiving the cup till all was gone.

“That job’s done,” said Jem, placing the jug on the plate, and the cup in the mouth of the jug. “Now then, I’m ready, Mas’ Don. You said escape, didn’t you, sir?”

“Yes. What shall we do?”

“Well, we can’t go down that way, sir, because the trap-door’s bolted.”

“There is the window, Jem.”

“Skylights, you mean, sir,” said Jem, looking up at the sloping panes in the roof. “Well, let’s have a look. Will you get a-top o’ my shoulders, or shall I get a-top o’ yourn?”

“I couldn’t bear you, Jem.”

“Then up you gets, my lad, like the tumblers do at the fair.”

It seemed easy enough to get up and stand on the sturdy fellow’s shoulders, but upon putting it to the test, Don found it very hard, and after a couple of failures he gave up, and they stood together looking up at the sloping window, which was far beyond their reach.

“Dessay it’s fastened, so that we couldn’t open it,” said Jem.

“The fox said the grapes were sour when he could not get at them, Jem.”

“That’s true, Mas’ Don. Well, how are we to get up?”

They looked round the loft, but, with the exception of the old sacking lying at one end, the place was bare.

“Here, come to the end, Jem, and let me have another try,” said Don.

“Right, sir; come on,” cried Jem; and going right to the end of the loft, he bent his body a little and leaned his hands against the wall.

This simplified matters.

“Stand fast, Jem,” cried Don, and taking a spring, he landed upon his companion’s broad back, leap-frog fashion, but only to jump off again.

“What’s the matter, Mas’ Don?”

“Only going to take off my shoes.”

“Ah, ’twill be better. I didn’t grumble before, but you did hurt, sir.”

Don slipped off his shoes, uttered a word or two of warning, and once more mounted on Jem’s back. It was easy then to get into a kneeling, and then to a standing, position, the wall being at hand to steady him.

“That’s your sort, Mas’ Don. Now hold fast, and step up on to my shoulders as I rise myself up; that’s the way,” he continued, slowly straightening himself, and placing his hands behind Don’s legs, as he stood up, steadily, facing the wall.

“What next, Jem?”

“Next, sir? Why, I’m going to walk slowly back under the window, for you to try and open it, and look out and see where we are. Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Hold tight, sir.”

“But there’s nothing to hold by, Jem, when you move away.”

“Then you must stand fast, sir, and I’ll balance you like. I can do it.”

Don drew a long breath, and felt no faith, for as soon as Jem moved steadily from the wall, his ability in balancing was not great.

“Stand firm, sir. I’ve got you,” he said.

“Am I too heavy, Jem?”

“Heavy? No, sir; I could carry two on you. Stand fast; ’tarn’t far. Stand fast. That’s your sort. Stand—oh!”

Everything depended upon him, and poor Jem did his best; but after three or four steps Don felt that he was going, and to save himself from a fall he tried to jump lightly down.

This would have been easy enough had not Jem been so earnest. He, too, felt that it was all wrong, and to save his companion, he tightened his hold of the calves of Don’s legs as the lad stood erect on his shoulders.

The consequence was that he gave Don sufficient check as he leaped to throw him off his balance; and in his effort to save him, Jem lost his own, and both came down with a crash and sat up and rubbed and looked at each other.

“Arn’t hurt, are you, Mas’ Don?”

“Not hurt?” grumbled Don. “I am hurt horribly.”

“I’m very sorry, sir; so am I. But I arn’t broke nowhere! Are you?”

“Broken? No!” said Don rising. “There, let’s try again.”

“To be sure, sir. Come, I like that.”

“Look here, Jem. When you straighten up, let me steady myself with my hands on the sloping ceiling there; now try.”

The former process was gone through, after listening to find all silent below; and Don stood erect once more, supporting himself by the wall.

“Now edge round gently, Jem. That’s right.”

Jem obeyed, and by progressing very slowly, they got to within about ten feet of the window, which Don saw that he could reach easily, when the balance was lost once more.

“Don’t hold, Jem!” cried Don; and he leaped backwards, to come down all right this time.

By no means discouraged, they went back to the end; and this time, by progressing more slowly, the window was reached, and, to their great delight, Don found that it was fastened inside, opening outwards by means of a couple of hinges at the highest end, and provided with a ratchet, to keep it open to any distance required.

“Can you bear me if I try to open it, Jem?”

“Can I? Ah!”

Jem was a true bearer, standing as fast as a small elephant as Don opened the window, and then supporting himself by a beam which ran across the opening, thrust out his head and surveyed the exterior.

He was not long in making out their position—in the top floor of a warehouse, the roof sloping, so that escape along it was impossible, while facing him was the blank wall of a higher building, evidently on the other side of a narrow alley. Don looked to right, but there was no means of making their position known so as to ask for help. To the left he was no better off, and seeing that the place had been well chosen as a temporary lock-up for the impressed men, Don prepared to descend.

“Better shut the window fust, Mas’ Don.”

The suggestion was taken, and then Don leaped down and faced his fellow-prisoner, repeating the information he had roughly communicated before.

“Faces a alley, eh?” said Jem. “Can’t we go along the roof.”

“I don’t believe a cat could go in safety, Jem.”

“Well, we aren’t cats, Mas’ Don, are we? Faces a alley, eh? Wasn’t there no windows opposit’?”

“Nothing but a blank wall.”

“Well, it’s all right, Mas’ Don. We’d better set to work. Only wants a rope with one end fastened in here, and then we could slide down.”

“Yes,” said Don gloomily; “the window is unfastened, and the way clear, but where’s the rope?”

“There,” said Jem, and he pointed to the end of the loft.

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