Philosopher Jack, R. M. Ballantyne [mobi reader android TXT] 📗

of Mr Black’s business character that he should make hay while the sun shone. He knew that Mrs Niven owned stock in the Blankow Bank; he knew that the Bank paid its shareholders a very handsome dividend, and he was aware that, owing to the unfavourable rumours then current, the value of the stock would fall very considerably. That, therefore, was the time for knowing men like Mr Black, who believed in the soundness of the bank, to buy. Accordingly he wrote a letter to Mrs Niven, advising her to sell her shares, and offering to transact the business for her, but he omitted to mention that he meant to buy them up himself. He added a postscript on the back, telling of the loss of the Lively Poll.

Mrs Niven was a kind-hearted woman, as the reader knows; moreover, she was a trusting soul.

“Very kind o’ Maister Black,” she observed to Peggy, her maid-of-all-work, on reading the letter. “The Blankow Bank gi’es a high dividend, nae doot, but I’m well enough off, and hae nae need to risk my siller for the sake o’ a pund or twa mair income i’ the year. Fetch me the ink, Peggy.”

A letter was quickly written, in which worthy Mrs Niven agreed to her relative’s proposal, and thanked him for the interest he took in her affairs. Having despatched Peggy with it to the post, she re-read Mr Black’s epistle, and in doing so observed the postscript, which, being on the fourth page, had escaped her on the first perusal.

“Hoots!” said she, “that’s stipid. I didna notice the PS.” Reading in a low tone, and commenting parenthetically, she continued, “‘By the way, did not one of your lodgers, a student, sail in the Lively Poll, (Atweel did he; he telt me, though he telt naebody else, an’ gaed muckle again’ my wull) as a common sailor?’ (Common indeed! na, na, he was an uncommon sailor, if he was onything.) ‘If so, you’ll be sorry to learn that the Lively Poll is lost, and all her crew and passengers have per—’”

Instead of reading “perished” poor Mrs Niven finished the sentence with a shriek, and fell flat on the floor, where she was found soon after, and with difficulty restored to consciousness by the horrified Peggy.

That same morning, in his lowly cottage on the Scottish border, Mr John Jack opened a newspaper at the breakfast-table. Besides Mrs Jack there sat at the table four olive branches—two daughters and two sons—the youngest of whom, named Dobbin, was peculiarly noticeable as being up to the eyes in treacle, Dobbin’s chief earthly joy being “treacle pieces.”

Mr Jack’s eye soon fell on the message from the sea. Of course he knew nothing of the writer, but recognised the name of the vessel as being that in which his son had sailed for the Southern Seas, for our hero had written to tell of his departure, although he had not asked or waited for advice. Mr Jack was a man of strong nerve. Rising quietly from the table, he left the room, but his wife noticed the expression of his face, and followed him into their bedroom.

“What’s wrang, John?”

The poor man turned abruptly, drew his wife to him, and pressed her head on his breast.

“O Maggie!” he said, in a low husky voice, “‘the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away,’ can you finish the sentence?”

“Ay, ‘blessed be the name o’ the Lord,’” said Mrs Jack in a tremulous voice; “but what—”

“Listen,” said her husband, and he read out the fatal message.

“It canna be—oh! it canna be—that my Teddie is gone,” said the stricken mother, clasping her hands; “I canna, I winna believe it. Are ye sure that was the ship’s name?”

“Yes, too sure,” answered her husband. “I’ve mislaid the dear boy’s letter, but I’ll go and see Mrs Niven. He mentioned it, I know, to her.”

There was yet another house in Scotland into which the message carried profound grief; namely, that of Bailie Trench. Need we say that the supposed loss of an only son was a crushing blow, rendered all the more terrible by the thought that death had been met so suddenly in a voyage which had been undertaken in search of health?

But we will spare the reader further details, and return once more to the Coral Island, where we left the castaways making themselves as comfortable as the nature of the place would admit of.

And, truth to tell, there are many people in civilised lands much less comfortably situated than were these same castaways.

The weather, as O’Rook said, “was splendacious, almost equal to that of ould Ireland.” Cocoa-nuts and other fruits were abundant. The lagoon swarmed with fish, including sharks, which rendered fishing an excitingly dangerous, as well as enjoyable, pastime. Polly Samson found gardens of coral and seaweed in crystal pools, which she could gaze at and admire for hours, though she could not walk in them. But she could, and did, sympathise with the little fish of varied size and colour which darted about in these water gardens, and Philosopher Jack found in them an inexhaustible theme for discourse to the teachable and inquisitive Baldwin Burr. The captain found enough of employment in directing and planning generally for the whole party. Cutting firewood, gathering nuts and wild fruit, fell to the lot of Bob Corkey; and Simon O’Rook slid naturally into the office of cook. The remainder of the men were employed at various jobs, according to circumstances.

Watty Wilkins was a passionate fisher. He divided his time between the lagoon and the couch of his sick friend Bell Trench, who soon began to improve on rest, sunshine, and cocoa-nut milk. As for Mr Luke, being fit for nothing, he was allowed to do very much what he pleased, except at meal times, when O’Rook made him wash the dishes, many of which were merely flat stones. In short, the place was, according to Polly, a sort of paradise, and would have been almost perfect, but for a tendency in one or two of the men to quarrel, and a powerful disposition in Bob Corkey and Simon O’Rook to argue. Though the arguing never quite degenerated into quarrelling, and the quarrelsome men never absolutely came to blows, their tendencies made this coral paradise imperfect.

Two of the most troublesome men, named respectively Bounce and Badger, were cured by the captain in the following manner:— They had been quarrelling verbally for half an hour one morning, calling each other names, and threatening, as usual, to fight, but not doing so.

“Come, lads, follow me,” said the captain to them sternly, and much to their surprise.

He led the way to a neighbouring grove, where he stopped. “Now,” said he, “this is a cool, shady spot. I want to know which of you two is the best man. Come, go to work and fight it out. I’ll see fair play.”

Bounce and Badger showed much unwillingness, whereupon the captain buttoned his coat, turned up his wristbands, doubled his enormous fists, and declared that they would have to fight with him if they would not fight with each other.

“But we don’t want to fight, sir,” said Bounce, humbly, seeing that the captain was thoroughly in earnest.

“Very well, then, shake hands,” said the captain, in a tone so peremptory that the men were fain to obey.

“Now, go back to camp together,” said the captain, “and let us have no more boasting—d’ee understand?”

They went off at once. After that there was less disagreement and no threatening to fight among the men.

One morning—it was a Sunday—the captain called the whole party together after breakfast, and announced the fact that he was going to preach them a sermon.

“You see, my lads,” said he, “since you have agreed that I shall continue to be your captain on shore as well as at sea—to be the governor, in short, of this little colony—it is right that we should come to a distinct understanding as to our new position, and be guided by fixed laws. In time I will draw you up a code which I hope will be ratified by yourselves, and will work well. To-day I mean to start by preaching a sermon. I pr’pose to do so every Sunday, and to have family prayers every morning. Is that agreed to?”

“Agreed,” said nearly every one. Bounce and Badger laughed, however, supposing that the captain was jesting.

But he was very far from jesting. Taking no notice of the laughter, he continued, in an earnest, impressive manner, which enforced respect while he pointed towards the other side of the island—

“My lads, the skeleton that lies over yonder furnishes me with a text: ‘One is taken, and another left.’ That poor fellow was taken away from this life. You and I have been left behind. Assuredly we have been left for a good purpose, and the merciful God who has spared us means that we should henceforth live for His glory. My lads, you all know what a blessed thing is a state of peace, and you also know what a miserable thing it is to be for ever quarrelling. Since we landed on this island, we’ve had a little of both. I took in hand to stop the quarrelling the other day, in my own way. P’r’aps it wasn’t altogether my own way either, for I’ve read in the Bible of smiting a scorner, that the simple might take warning. However, be that as it may, that system may serve a turn; but it’s not the straight road to come to a state of peace. If we are to live happily here, my lads, to avoid quarrelling, to honour our Maker, and to prove to each other—as well as to angels and devils, who may be lookin’ on for all that I know—that we stand on a higher level than the brutes, we must square our conduct by the rules and laws laid down by the Prince of Peace, whose desire is that on earth men should live together in peace and goodwill. I’ll now read you some of these laws.”

Here the captain drew a small Bible from his pocket, and slowly read the fifth chapter of Matthew’s Gospel, pausing at each verse, and commenting thereon, after his own peculiar fashion, to the surprise of all who heard him; for although all knew the captain to be an upright man, they were not prepared, by his usually stern look and brusque off-hand manner, for the tender spirit and depth of feeling which he now displayed.

“Now, my lads,” said he, shutting the book, “that’s all I’ve got to say to you to-day, but before closing, let me ask you to think like men—not like children—about what we have been reading. The service of God is not a mere matter of ceremonies. Jesus Christ came to save you and me, not so much from punishment, as from sin itself. It is a great salvation. Those of you who may have been swimming with the current know and care nothing about the power of sin. If you think you do, my lads, turn up stream. Try to resist sin, and you’ll learn something new. Only those who are made willing and strong by the Spirit of God can do it successfully. No doubt that remark will set adrift a lot o’ thoughts and questions in your minds. To all of them I give you a short text as a good course to steer by: ‘Ask, and ye shall receive.’ Ask light and ask wisdom.

“Now, cook,” continued the captain, turning to O’Rook, “go to work and get your dinner under weigh, for talking makes one hungry. Meanwhile, I intend to go and have a short ramble on the sea-shore, and I want to know if there is any small female on this island who wants to go with me.”

At this Polly jumped up with a laugh, put her little hand in that of her father, and stood on tiptoe, with upturned face. The