Edward Barry | Page 8

than six, I hope."
Mr. Maynard's step sounded on the landing, and in another moment he
came in.
"Here it is, my dear----" he began, and then he stopped suddenly.
"Crying, my child? Poor little girl, you are done up, and weak as well."

"Indeed I'm not, father. I feel lovely and strong. See," and she sprang to
him, and threw her arms around his neck, to his intense amazement.
Then Barry spoke out straightforwardly.
"Mr. Maynard, ever since we came out together in the Maid of Judah I
have loved Rose. And to-night I ask your forgiveness for not having
told you so two years ago. But I was waiting till I got a ship of my
own."
The old man gently disengaged his daughter's arms and held out his
hand to the seaman.
"God bless you, my boy; why didn't you tell me before? Surely her
happiness is my first care. And I've guessed it all along."
CHAPTER III.
THE BRIG MAHINA.
Ten o'clock had just struck when Barry returned to the hotel, with a
heart as light as that of a boy, and walking into the parlour found it
occupied by his friend Watson and the three others.
"Here I am, you see, Mr. Watson, just in time for a yarn and smoke
before I leave. Will you give me your key, please?"
"Aye, aye, sonny," said the rumbling-voiced mate, taking it from his
pocket. "Hurry up. Welsh rarebit in five minutes."
Hastily changing his borrowed clothes Barry then went into his own
room and packed his one bag, which he at once carried downstairs.
Fortunately he owed the landlord nothing, and though he had but three
shillings in the world, his face indicated nothing but a supreme content
when he rejoined the old mate and his companions.
The Welsh rarebit and its liquid concomitants having been duly
disposed of, Barry rose and told his friends that as he must be on board

his new ship by midnight, and then had to write a letter, he must leave
them. Then he shook hands all round, each man wishing him luck.
Watson came to the door with him. "Got all you want, sonny? Anything
I can do for you?"
"Yes, come into the side parlour here, and I'll tell you my yarn before I
write that letter. I've a full hour, and I can do both in that time."
"Aye, aye," said Watson in his deep voice, as he seated himself.
"Well, here it is--the yarn I mean. I came out here to Sydney two years
ago, chief officer on the Maid of Judah. There were a lot of passengers.
One family--an old gentleman, his wife and daughter and myself got
pretty thick."
"'Count of the daughter?"
Barry nodded. "Yes. The skipper was a lardy-da sort of a beast, and fell
foul of me on account of talking to her too much--so he told the girl's
mother--who was a silly, brainless sort of a woman, and thought him a
perfect gentleman--I knew him to be a beast. Between the two of them
they made trouble enough for me, though the old gentleman stuck to
me, and didn't believe in the skipper. And anyway the girl liked me best,
you see."
The old mate nodded. "I've seen a lot of skippers like that. The way
women--married women travellin' alone especially--takes to such
swabs is agin Natur'. I don't understand it--never could."
"Well," resumed Barry, "one day, after we reached Sydney, the skipper
and I came to blows--over the girl. I asked for leave--told him I was
going ashore to see the Maynards. He said something foul about the
girl, and so I dropped it into him--knocked him off the break of the
poop on to the main deck. He was nearly killed. I got two months'
gaol."
Rumbling voice nodded again. "An' o' course the gal wouldn't

recognise you again. Don't tell me. I know something about women."
Barry smiled. "But she isn't one of that sort, Mr. Watson. Both she and
her father used to come and see me--the mother hated me. Of course,
when I came out, the owners of the Maid of Judah wouldn't have
anything to do with me after spoiling the beauty of their curly-headed
pet skipper, and so I was stranded for a bit. But I soon got a berth as
mate on a brig called the Tawera, trading between Tahiti, Valparaiso,
and Sydney. Used to write to the girl (whose mother had died
meantime) and was putting by money. Then I got into another mess."
"Women?" queried Watson, puffing solemnly at his pipe.
"No," answered Barry hotly; "didn't I tell you that I used to write to her?
I'm not one of that sort."
"Beg pardon, sonny. I'm an old fool. But what was the