rough surely—Wouldn't have been out in our little vessel, The Laughing Polly, for two guineas? Only wished he could make that with that 'ere little lot of fish, as had cost him and his mates some risk and trouble to get on board. He and his missus would be blessed glad if they got sixteen shillings for the lot. It was blowing pretty stiff just now, and that was all about it; and there was a vessel, one of Green's big Indiamen out there, lying off Brightown Head, that would be on shore soon, as sure as eggs were eggs, if the wind didn't change. Couldn't make no way, they couldn't, and seemed, poor souls, drawing on land, nearer and nearer every hour, poor souls." Here the ancient mariner, who smelt of gin, moved by a not unmanly grief, wiped his blind eye with the scale-spangled sleeve of his tan-coloured smock, and withdrew, shouting, no doubt to conceal his feelings, his well-known war cry of, "Fresh herrings—fresh and fine O—Her-r-r-r-r-ings!"
I sat down and pondered. Should I call for help; followed by a brave crew of tan-coloured fishermen, and collecting all the spare jib-booms, main-tops, and spare oars we could find, should we rush "To the lifeboat! To the lifebo-o-o-o-o-o-oat!" and pull away for the wreck? I would, however, first finish my last piece of toast, then ring for my boots, bind myself up in a mackintosh, tie a red comforter round my neck, toss off a bottle of brandy, make my will, pay my bill, order dinner (but perhaps, I might not return?), then, with some spare sculls on my shoulders, make for the wreck. Of course there would be a nabob on board, or, better still, a nabobess, young, fair, and beautiful, with four millions of gold stowed away under hatches in his, or her, brass-nailed trunk.
Yes, the nabob must be saved, let what will happen. Beaumanoir, to the rescue. My father had Norman blood in his veins, or he said he had, therefore I suppose I have some too. It stirs within me now. Away through the scud and thunder, the lightning and the hail, and the spray froth scattering like snow along the shore. Now, then, my lads, take the tar-pauling off the lifeboat and in with her, for there's a big sea on, and we must be off. Lift her keel over the shingle. There's a valuable life to be saved yonder. Three cheers for the British Constitution and the good old Church of England! Pardon my tears. They are tears of excitement. Now, there she floats; unship your oars; you Number Three, take the bow oar; Number Two avast hauling; belay there every one of you. Pull away, lads. Hearts of oak are our midships, sons of guns are our men. Cheerly, boys, to the rescue. Where's the brandy? Now, then, with a will—I've made mine. All right, come put your backs into it. Mind that big wave—bravely done. Now we near her. How the poor fellows scream! Yep, there is the nabob—there he is, yellow as a lizard, waving a yellow handkerchief from the main chains. I'll flourish my hat. We are here—to the rescue. The nabob bows. Now, then, men, take care of the floating spars—in between them, and.
One bound and I am in the main chains, shaking hands with the paralysed nabob. He screams with delight and embraces me. He points to a black chest at his feet inscribed in large white letters, like a tombstone, "Four millions and a half!" I can hardly hear what he says, but I think it is: "Gallant preserver, half of this worthless wealth is yours, if you will save me." All right. Three cheers for the British Constitution, and three more for the Church of Ireland. You lubbers there on the round top, you white livered skulkers, come down and help to save the vessel. Who is that pale fellow whetting his knife on the binnacle? O, that's the ship's cook gone mad from fright! Tie his arms behind him, and one of you throw him into the long boat. You fellow out there on the spanker boom, come down and bear a hand, or I'll fire a broadside at you. Take care boys; give the wreck a good wide berth. She's lifting off the rocks, the next time she strikes it'll be all over. The women first; you scoundrel, move a step to get into the boat, and I'll cut you down. Don't be alarmed, sir; you are quite safe: but the chest! Lower that chest gently, boatswain; if you drop it edgeways it will stave in the boat. Gently there; so, so. Now it's in; back water, my lads. Three cheers for the Army and Navy. Now, with a will. No talking, men. I want to hear what this gentleman says. You wish to give me the four millions and a half, because you have another four millions in the vessel that got into Southampton last Tuesday? Generous man! The name of your life-preserver? My name is"
The nabob does not wait to hear my reply. With a very peculiar smile, he throws up the lid of the treasure chest. Horror! The chest is brimming with rolls of brass sovereigns! Brummagem, every man jack of them—the sovereigns, not inappropriately entitled duffer sovereigns, that are coined for barter with the sable inhabitants of the Guinea coast, who give in exchange ivory, palm oil, cockatoos, gold dust, and diamonds. I scream violently. All at once the chest explodes. The nabob passes downward in a gust of fire, and I'm thrown into the sea under the wreck. A shout of demoniacal laughter comes from the parting vessel, and I hear a shrill cry of—
"Here's your shaving water, if you please, sir, and quite hot!"
It has been a dream—a moment's reverie. Green's enormous Indiaman has still to be rescued, and I have got to shave myself.
To shave is the work of a moment. I put on my hat and hurry to the beach. It has ceased to rain, the wind has gone down, the haze is lifting; the blue sky, already large enough to clothe a moderate sized Dutchman, is spreading out aloft. (I must be nautical. I can't somehow help it.)
I search the grey wall of sea everywhere for the nabob, or the Indiaman. No signs. I beat along the cloudy tawny surface of the troubled
