Mother Careys Chicken | Page 3

Penzance, whichever you like, and then you can come back to London by rail. Hallo, who's that?"
There was a ring at the old iron gate, and Mark rose and walked to the window.
"A sailor, father."
"Sailor!" said the captain, rising. "Oh, it's Billy Widgeon! Tell the girl to show him in."
Mark went out to speak to the servant, and the next minute the big front door-mat was having a hard time as the sailor stood rubbing away at his perfectly clean boots, and breathing hard with the exertion, staring furtively at Mark Strong the while.
CHAPTER TWO.
HOW BILLY WIDGEON BROUGHT A LETTER.
The man who was working so hard at the mat was a sailor of apparently about five-and-thirty, carefully dressed in his shore-going suit of navy blue, and carrying a very tightly-done-up dandified umbrella, which looked as out of place in his hands as a parasol would daintily poised by a grenadier guard.
He was a strong squarely-built fellow, with crisp black hair and close beard, and if he had gone under a standard the height he would have reached would probably have been five feet, the result of this being that he had to look up at Mark Strong, who was about five feet six, and at the maid, who was only a couple of inches less.
"Want to see my father?" said Mark, as the man continued to stare and wipe his shoes.
"Ware sharks! Heave off, you ugly lubber! I say: will he bite?"
This was consequent upon a pattering of toe-nails upon the oil-cloth and the appearance of Bruff, the dog, who began to walk round the visitor and smell him.
"No, he won't bite friends," said Mark.
"Tip us your fin, then, messm't," said the sailor, holding out his hand.
"Give him your paw, Bruff," cried Mark; but the dog paid no heed, only continued to smell the visitor.
"Wheer's the skipper?" said the sailor then, hoarsely. "You his boy?"
"Yes," said Mark, gazing enviously at a man who was probably one of those about to sail with Captain Strong on his voyage to Singapore and China. "I say, don't wear out the door-mat."
"Eh? No, m'lad, I won't wear out the mat. You see we don't have no mats afloat. I say! my!"
The man bent down, as if seized with a cramping internal pain, and gave his right leg a slap with his horny paw, whose back was as hairy as that of a monkey.
"What's the matter?" said Mark.
"Matter! I was only larfin. My! you are like the skipper! Wheer is he?"
"This way," said Mark, leading him to the comfortable room, where, as soon as he entered and saw Mrs Strong, the man began ducking his head and kicking out one leg.
Mrs Strong nodded and smiled at the man, feeling a kindly leaning toward one of those who would be under her husband's orders for the next six months, and perhaps his guardians in some storm.
"I'll leave you now, dear," she said.
"Oh, you need not go!" said the captain; but Mrs Strong left the room.
"Shall I go, father?" asked Mark.
"No, my boy, no. Sit down. Well, Billy, what news?"
"None at all, sir, only we shall soon be full up; they've bent on a new mains'l and fores'l; we've been a-painting of her streak to-day, and she do look lovely, and no mistake. But here's a letter I was to give you, sir."
The man evidently had a letter somewhere, from the confident way in which he began to search for it, looking in his cap, then feeling about in his loose blue jumper, and ending with his trousers' pockets.
"Well," said Captain Strong sharply, "where's the letter?"
"Ah! wheer is it?" muttered the man, stroking himself down the sleeves, the chest, and the back. "I had that theer letter somewheres, but it seems to be gone."
"Did you leave it aboard?"
"No, sir, I didn't leave it aboard; I'm sure of that. It's somewheres about me."
"Hang it, man! have you felt in all your pockets?"
"Ain't got but two, sir, and I feeled in both o' them. Think o' that, now, arter Mr Gregory saying as I was to be werry careful o' that letter!"
"So careful that you've lost it," cried Captain Strong. "Bill Widgeon, you're about the biggest blockhead in the crew."
"Well, I dunno about that, sir; I may be a blockhead, but I arn't lost the letter."
"Where is it, then?" cried the captain angrily.
"That's just what I want to know, sir."
"Bah! it's lost."
"No, sir, it arn't lost; I were too careful for that, and--theer, I telled you so. I remember now. Mr Gregory says, says he, `you, Billy Widgeon,' he says, `you've got to take great care of that letter,' he says; and `all right, sir,' I says, `I just will,' and I put it wheer I thought it would be safest, and here it is."
As he spoke, grinning broadly