Chatterbox, 1905 Part 72

'Me no want any, skipper,' Ping w.a.n.g answered.

'Don't want it, eh? What does that matter? Drink it at once.'

Ping w.a.n.g shook his head, and the skipper immediately flung the contents of his mug full in the Chinaman's face. The tea was very hot, and with a cry of pain Ping w.a.n.g ran at his tormentor. Stepping backwards quickly, to avoid him, the skipper stumbled over the weather-board at the entrance to the galley, and fell heavily on to the deck.

The mate, who had been pacing the deck, ran to pick him up. 'What's the matter, skipper?' he asked.

'That Chinee has knocked me down,' the skipper declared.

'He did nothing of the kind,' Charlie declared, and related to the mate exactly what happened.

'You'd better get an hour or two's sleep before we haul,' the mate said to the skipper, and, taking his arm, led him away.

'I think we had better turn in also,' Ping w.a.n.g said, and Charlie at once went forward with him.

The other men were already asleep. The ventilators were all closed, and the foc's'le was so close and stuffy that Charlie thought, at first, that he would have to go on deck again. But, being very tired, he determined to stay where he was, and clambered into his bunk. He slept soundly, in spite of the bad air, until Ping w.a.n.g aroused him. It was a quarter to eleven, and the men were donning their oilskins, with a view to hauling.

'You had better put the kettle on,' Ping w.a.n.g said to Charlie; 'all hands will want tea before they turn in again.'

Charlie, wearing his oilskins, went to the galley at once. As he pa.s.sed along the deck he s.h.i.+vered, for a breeze had sprung up, and the air struck cold, after the stuffiness of the foc's'le.

(_Continued on page 226._)

THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON'S HEAD GARDENER.

'We must not forget the gardener,' says a visitor, describing Walmer Castle at the time when Wellington was Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports.

This gardener, a fine-looking, elderly man, was at the battle of Waterloo, and when his regiment was disbanded, the Duke offered him the post of head gardener at Walmer Castle.

The good fellow objected, for, to use his own words, he 'did not then know a moss rose from a cabbage,' but the Duke was determined, and, as a soldier, the man could but obey orders. 'But now,' he said to the visitor, 'I get on pretty well.'

'And like it?' he was next asked.

'Oh, yes.'

'But suppose war were to break out--would you be a soldier again?'

'Why, that must depend on the Duke: if he said I must go, of course I must.'

'How did you manage when you first came here?'

'Why, as well as I could. It was rather awkward.'

'Perhaps you studied hard--read a good deal?'

'No, I didn't read at all.'

'You looked about you, then?'

'Yes, I did that.'

'And now you get on very well?'

'Why, yes; but I am plagued sometimes: the names of the flowers puzzle me sadly.'

'And what does the Duke say to that?'

'Oh, I have him there,' said the soldier gardener, 'for he doesn't know them himself!'

The visitor also stated that the garden abounded in flowers--not rare ones, but rich and luxuriant, with a well-kept lawn, in the midst of which was a lime-tree, which the Duke always declared to be the finest he had ever seen.

The experiment of turning a soldier into a head gardener seems to have been quite successful.

TWO MEDALS.

A little English schoolboy was sauntering along the quay, looking rather bored. It was a picturesque scene--this port of the Black Sea--with the varied craft in the harbour, and the varied nationalities represented by the groups of men who chattered and gesticulated, or lounged and slept in the suns.h.i.+ne.

But what, he thought, were the summer holidays without cricket? Of course, it was jolly to be with his people again, but d.i.c.k did wish they lived in England. The boys at school had envied him because his journey home would take him through the unrestful Balkan territory, and he might have all manner of adventures. It was very hard that there had been none, though the train after his had been held up, and had not got through without some fighting.

He reached the end of the stone pier, where half-a-dozen men were leaning over a low parapet.

'What is your pleasure, little Milord?' one asked him. This was their nickname for the boy, who had been a favourite with them since he had learnt to order them about in their own tongue when not much more than a baby.

'My pleasure is a cricket match,' he answered, 'and as far as I can see it is a pleasure I shall have to do without.'

'Would not little Milord like to fish?' asked another. 'See, one already is trying his luck,' and he pointed to a boy about d.i.c.k's age sitting on the parapet with his line in the water below.

'A foolish place to try, with the current running as strong as it does round the end of the pier,' d.i.c.k said. 'He is not likely to get a bite there.'

Even as he spoke the boy jumped up suddenly and turned round. No one saw exactly how it happened, but he missed his balance, and with a scream fell into the water.

For a minute d.i.c.k waited. He was such a little chap, and of course one of those big men would jump in after the boy. But no! they stood staring at each other with terrified faces, and never moved.

Then over the wall went d.i.c.k into the water beneath. The boy had risen, and he struck out for him, reaching him easily enough, for the current carried him. It was getting back which was difficult.

The men at the pier-head ran about and shouted in a frantic way. 'A boat!' shouted one. 'A rope!' called another; while a third wrung his hands and moaned, 'They are lost! they are lost!'

And d.i.c.k battled and battled against the current with the dead weight of the boy hindering him from making any perceptible way. It never even occurred to him that by letting his burden go he might at any rate save himself. And his English pluck came to his help. He wouldn't be beaten.

He just _had_ to get to land somehow, and he must not let himself think of anything else. The men, too, had at last found a rope and were flinging it to him. If only he could get near it! Once it was just within his grasp, but he was beaten back again. Then, with a final tremendous effort, he struck out again and reached it, and held on like grim death, though the singing in his ears and his struggling, panting breath warned him his strength was nearly exhausted. By this time, however, a boat was nearing them, and soon the boys were on land, though the lad d.i.c.k had saved was with difficulty brought back to consciousness.

d.i.c.k himself was rather white and limp, but otherwise not much the worse for his adventure.