The Floating Light of the Goodwin Sands, R. M. Ballantyne [polar express read aloud .txt] 📗

night,” continued Queeker to himself, still standing bolt upright in a frenzy of inspiration, and running his fingers fiercely through his hair, so as to make it stand bolt upright too—“only last night I heard old Durant say he could not make up his mind where to go to spend the autumn this year. Why not Ramsgate? why not Ramsgate?

“Its chalky cliffs, and yellow sand,

    And rides, and walks, and weather,

Its windows, which a view command

    Of everything together.

 

“Its pleasant walks, and pretty shops,

    To fascinate the belles,

Its foaming waves, like washing-slops,

    To captivate the swells.

 

“Its boats and boatmen, brave and true,

    Who lounge upon the jetty,

And smile upon the girls too—

    At least when they are pretty.

 

“Oh! Ramsgate, where in all the earth,

    Beside the lovely sea,

Can any town of note or worth

    Be found to equal thee?

“Nowhere!” said Queeker, bringing his fist down on the table with a force that made the ink leap, when he had finished these verses—verses, however, which cost him two hours and a profuse perspiration to produce.

It was exactly a quarter to eight p.m. by the Yarmouth custom-house clock, due allowance being made for variation, when this “Nowhere!” was uttered, and it was precisely a quarter past nine p.m. that day week when the Durants drove up to the door of the Fortress Hotel in Ramsgate, and ordered beds and tea,—so powerful was the influence of a great mind when brought to bear on Fanny Hennings, who exercised irresistible influence over the good-natured Katie, whose power over her indulgent father was absolute!

Not less natural was the presence, in Ramsgate, of Billy Towler. We have already mentioned that, for peculiarly crooked ends of his own, Morley Jones had changed his abode to Ramsgate—his country abode, that is. His headquarters and town department continued as before to flourish in Gravesend, in the form of a public-house, which had once caught fire at a time, strange to say, when the spirit and beer casks were all nearly empty, a curious fact which the proprietor alone was aware of, but thought it advisable not to mention when he went to receive the 200 pounds of insurance which had been effected on the premises a few weeks before! It will thus be seen that Mr Jones’s assurance, in the matter of dealing with insurance, was considerable.

Having taken up his temporary abode, then, in Ramsgate, and placed his mother and daughter therein as permanent residents, Mr Jones commenced such a close investigation as to the sudden disappearance of his ally Billy, that he wormed out of the unwilling but helpless Nora not only what had become of him, but the name and place of his habitation. Having accomplished this, he dressed himself in a blue nautical suit with brass buttons, took the morning train to London, and in due course presented himself at the door of the Grotto, where he requested permission to see the boy Towler.

The request being granted, he was shown into a room, and Billy was soon after let in upon him.

“Hallo! young Walleye, why, what ever has come over you?” he exclaimed in great surprise, on observing that Billy’s face was clean, in which condition he had never before seen it, and his hair brushed, an extraordinary novelty; and, most astonishing of all, that he wore unragged garments.

Billy, who, although outwardly much altered, had apparently lost none of his hearty ways and sharp intelligence, stopped short in the middle of the room, thrust both hands deep into his trousers pockets, opened his eyes very wide, and gave vent to a low prolonged whistle.

“What game may you be up to?” he said, at the end of the musical prelude.

“You are greatly improved, Billy,” said Jones, holding out his hand.

“I’m not aweer,” replied the boy, drawing back, “as I’ve got to thank you for it.”

“Come, Billy, this ain’t friendly, is it, after all I’ve done for you?” said Jones, remonstratively; “I only want you to come out an’ ’ave a talk with me about things, an’ I’ll give ’ee a swig o’ beer or whatever you take a fancy to. You ain’t goin’ to show the white feather and become a milksop, are you?”

“Now, look here, Mister Jones,” said the boy, with an air of decision that there was no mistaking, as he retreated nearer to the door; “I don’t want for to have nothin’ more to do with you. I’ve see’d much more than enough of ’ee. You knows me pretty well, an’ you knows that wotiver else I may be, I ain’t a hippercrite. I knows enough o’ your doin’s to make you look pretty blue if I like, but for reasons of my own, wot you’ve got nothink to do with, I don’t mean to peach. All I ax is, that you goes your way an’ let me alone. That’s where it is. The people here seem to ’ave got a notion that I’ve got a soul as well as a body, and that it ain’t ’xactly sitch a worthless thing as to be never thought of, and throw’d away like an old shoe. They may be wrong, and they may be right, but I’m inclined to agree with ’em. Let me tell ’ee that you ’ave did more than anybody else to show me the evil of wicked ways, so you needn’t stand there grinnin’ like a rackishoot wi’ the toothache. I’ve jined the Band of Hope, too, so I don’t want none o’ your beer nor nothin’ else, an’ if you offers to lay hands on me, I’ll yell out like a she-spurtindeel, an’ bring in the guv’nor, wot’s fit to wollop six o’ you any day with his left hand.”

This last part of Billy’s speech was made with additional fire, in consequence of Morley Jones taking a step towards him in anger.

“Well, boy,” he said, sternly, “hypocrite or not, you’ve learned yer lesson pretty pat, so you may do as you please. It’s little that a chip like you could do to get me convicted on anything you’ve seen or heard as yet, an’ if ye did succeed, it would only serve to give yourself a lift on the way to the gallows. But it wasn’t to trouble myself about you and your wishes that I came here for (the wily rascal assumed an air and tone of indifference at this point); if you had only waited to hear what I’d got to say, before you began to spit fire, you might have saved your breath. The fact is that my Nora is very ill—so ill that I fear she stands a poor chance o’ gittin’ better. I’m goin’ to send her away on a long sea voyage. P’r’aps that may do her good; if not, it’s all up with her. She begged and prayed me so earnestly to come here and take you down to see her before she goes, that I could not refuse her—particularly as I happened to have business in London anyhow. If I’d known how you would take it, I would have saved myself the trouble of comin’. However, I’ll bid you good-day now.”

“Jones,” said the boy earnestly, “that’s a lie.”

“Very good,” retorted the man, putting on his hat carelessly, “I’ll take back that message with your compliments—eh?”

“No; but,” said Billy, almost whimpering with anxiety, “is Nora really ill?”

“I don’t wish you to come if you don’t want to,” replied Jones; “you can stop here till doomsday for me. But do you suppose I’d come here for the mere amusement of hearing you give me the lie?”

“I’ll go!” said Billy, with as much emphasis as he had previously expressed on declining to go.

The matter was soon explained to the manager of the Grotto. Mr Jones was so plausible, and gave such unexceptionable references, that it is no disparagement to the penetration of the superintendent of that day to say that he was deceived. The result was, as we have shown, that Billy ere long found his way to Ramsgate.

When Mr Jones introduced him ceremoniously to Nora, he indulged in a prolonged and hearty fit of laughter. Nora gazed at Billy with a look of intense amazement, and Billy stared at Nora with a very mingled expression of countenance, for he at once saw through the deception that had been practised on him, and fully appreciated the difficulty of his position—his powers of explanation being hampered by a warning, given him long ago by his friend Jim Welton, that he must be careful how he let Nora into the full knowledge of her father’s wickedness.