The Young Trawler | Page 9

down with a benignant smile at this independent specimen of
humanity, the captain obeyed orders.
"D'ee make much at this work now, my lad?" asked the captain.
"Not wery much, sir. Just about enough to keep soul an' body together,
an' not always that. It was on'y last veek as I was starvin' to that extent
that my soul very nigh broke out an' made his escape, but the doctor he
got 'old of it by the tail an' 'eld on till 'e indooced it to stay on a bit
longer. There you are, sir; might shave in 'em!"
"How much to pay?"
"Vell, gen'lemen usually gives me a penny, but that's in or'nary cases.
Ven I has to shine boots like a pair o' ships' boats I looks for suthin'
hextra--though I don't always get it!"
"There you are, my lad," said the captain, giving the boy something

"hextra," which appeared to satisfy him. Thereafter he proceeded to the
Bridge, and, embarking on one of the river steamers, was soon
deposited at Pimlico. Thence, traversing St. George's Square, he soon
found himself in the little street in which dwelt the Misses Seaward. He
looked about him for some minutes and then entered a green-grocer's
shop, crushing his hat against the top of the door-way.
Wishing the green-grocer good-morning he asked if lodgings were to
be had in that neighbourhood.
"Well, yes, sir," he replied, "but I fear that you'd find most of 'em rather
small for a man of your size."
"No fear o' that," replied the captain with a loud guffaw, which roused
the grocer's cat a little, "I'm used to small cabins, an' smaller bunks,
d'ee see, an' can stow myself away easy in any sort of hole. Why, I've
managed to snooze in a bunk only five foot four, by clewin' up my
legs-- though it wasn't comfortable. But it's not the size I care about so
much as the character o' the landlady. I like tidy respectable people,
you see--havin' bin always used to a well-kept ship."
"Ah! I know one who'll just suit you. Up at the other end o' the street.
Two rooms kept by a young widow who--"
"Hold hard there," interrupted the captain; "none o' your young widows
for me. They're dangerous. Besides, big as I am, I don't want two rooms
to sleep in. If you know of any old maid, now, with one room-- that's
what would suit me to a tee; an easy-going sort o' woman, who--"
"I know of two elderly ladies," interrupted the green-grocer,
thoughtfully; "they're sisters, and have got a small room to let; but--
but--they're delicate sort o' creeters, you know; have seen better days,
an' are raither timid, an' might want a female lodger, or a man who--
who--"
"Out with it," interrupted the captain, "a man who is soft-spoken and
well-mannered--not a big noisy old sea-horse like me! Is that what you
would say?"

"Just so," answered the green-grocer with an amiable nod.
"What's the name of the sisters?"
"Seaward."
"Seaward! eh!" exclaimed the captain in surprise. "That's odd, now,
that a seafarin' man should be sent to seaward for his lodgin's, even
when he gets on shore. Ha! ha! I've always had a leanin' to seaward. I'll
try the sisters. They can only tell me to 'bout ship, you know, and be off
on the other tack."
And again the captain gave such boisterous vent to his mirth that the
green-grocer's cat got up and walked indignantly away, for, albeit well
used to the assaults of small boys, it apparently could not stand the
noise of this new and bass disturber of the peace.
Having ascertained that the Misses Seaward dwelt above the shop in
which he stood, Captain Bream went straight up-stairs and rapped
heavily at their door.
Now, although the sisters had been gradually reduced to the extreme of
poverty, they had hitherto struggled successfully against the necessity
of performing what is known as the "dirty work" of a house. By stinting
themselves in food, working hard at anything they succeeded in getting
to do, and mending and re-mending their garments until it became
miraculous, even to themselves, how these managed to hang together,
they had, up to that period in their history, managed to pay to a slender
little girl, out of their slender means, a still more slender salary for
coming night and morning to clean their grate, light their fire, carry out
their ashes, brush their boots, wash their door-steps, and otherwise
perform work for which the sisters were peculiarly unfitted by age,
training, and taste. This girl's name was Liffie Lee. She was good as far
as she went but she did not go far. Her goodness was not the result of
principle. She had no principle;