Shifting Winds | Page 8

bosom, and crossed her arms thereon tightly.
Stephen smiled slightly as he turned, raised the window, and leaped through it into the road, followed by a vociferous cheer from Billy, whose spirit was wildly stirred by the boldness and success of the movement, and mightily rejoiced at the discomfiture of his mother.
Mrs Gaff relieved her feelings by slapping the Bu'ster's face, and was about to close the window when her husband quietly stepped through it again, saying--
"Open the door, lass, you've no need to fear; I'll remain now."
There was a trampling of many feet outside. The door had scarcely been unlocked when they were in the passage. Next moment four fishermen entered, bearing the figure of a man in their arms.
"He an't drownded, lass, only swownded," said one of the men to Mrs Gaff, with the view of relieving the good woman's anxiety, as they laid a seaman on the bed. "Look alive now, old girl, an' git hot blankets an' bottles."
While Mrs Gaff obeyed in silent haste, the room was filled with men, some of whom supported or half-carried others, whose drooping heads, torn garments, and haggard faces, showed that they had just been rescued from the angry sea. None of them were more than partially clothed; some were nearly naked. With excited haste the fishermen crowded the wrecked men round the fire, and spread blankets and sails, or whatever came first to hand, on the floor for those who were most exhausted to lie down upon, while Stephen Gaff poured hot tea and hot grog indiscriminately into cups, saucers, pannikins, and soup-plates, and urged them to drink with rough but kindly hospitality.
The wrecked men, (there were twelve of them), were Russians, and as a matter of course could not understand a word that was said to them, although some of the fishermen asked them, with as much earnestness as if their lives depended on the answer, "Who--they--wos--an'--whar'-- they--com'd--fro'?"
Receiving for reply a stare and a shake of the head from such of the men as were able to attend, one of the fishermen tried them again with great precision and slowness of speech, and with much solemnity of manner, "What--part--o' the arth--d'ye hail fro',--lads?"
No answer, accompanied by a stare and a shake.
"Oh, it's o' no use," cried one, "let the poor lads a-be."
"Hallo! Dan," cried another, as a man forced his way through the crowded room towards the fire, "you've bin in Toorkey, I believe; I say, try them fellers wi' a screed o' Toorko. P'raps they'll make thatout."
The individual addressed was very different from the men amongst whom he stood. He was a thin, slightly-made, yet strong and active young man, in a very short grey coat, a very long striped vest, and very tight corduroy trousers--a sort of compound of footman and jockey. In truth, Daniel Horsey was both; being at once valet and groom to the romantic Kenneth, whose fate it was, (according to the infallible Mrs Niven), to be "drownded."
Dan's first inquiry was as to whether any one had seen his master, and the tones in which the question was put betokened him, beyond all doubt, a son of the Green Isle.
Being told that no one had seen his master, he was about to leave the hut in quest of him when he was collared by several stout men, and placed forcibly in front of a Russian with a huge red beard, who appeared to be the least exhausted of the party.
"Come now, Dan, say somethin' to them Roosians."
"Arrah! d'ye think I'll spake a word av ye stick yer great ugly fists into my jooglar veins like that? Hands off," he cried indignantly, "or niver a taste o' spaitch ye'll git from me, bad or good. Besides, what duv I know about Roosian?"
"Ye've bin in Toorkey, han't ye?" inquired a fisherman.
"Troth I have, an' what o' that?" replied Dan, as his captors released their hold of his collar.
"Ye can speak Toorko, can't ye?"
"Maybe I can," he replied cautiously.
"Well, I'm told that Toorkey lies to the suthard o' Roosia, just as England lies to the suthard o' Scotland, an' so, mayhap, they'll understand a bit Toorko."
"Faix, av they don't understand Thoorko better nor the English understand Scotch, it's little speed I'll come wi' them," said Dan with a leer. "Howsomediver, I'll give 'em a trial. I say, Mr Red-beard, hubba doorum bobble moti squorum howko joski tearum thaddi whak? Come, now, avic, let's hear what ye've got to say to that. An' mind what ye spake, 'cause we won't stand no blarney here."
Dan uttered this with immense volubility and assurance, and the fishermen regarded him with deepening respect, as they awaited the Russian's answer. He replied by a stare and a shake of the head as before.
"Hookum daddy," resumed Dan, stooping to gaze earnestly into the man's