CHAPTER I

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_AT PLAY._

IT was a pleasant day about the beginning of April; a bright, warm, jovial day, such as one wishes would last all the year round; a day that tells of winter past, and gives assurance that summer is really about to come.

The fisher boys and girls of Brindleport romped on the beach with unquenchable ardour; the men busied themselves about their boats, and the women about their nets and bait, in a supremely contented frame of mind. Even the crabs seemed to be filled with the spirit of joyous

## activity, for, as Dan Barcombe said, they scuttled about from pool to

pool as if it were a cleaning-up day in their domestic arrangements, and displayed more than their wonted readiness to raise their claws in fight—not an unknown condition in those who have much to do with cleaning-up days!

Daniel Barcombe was the coxswain of the lifeboat. He flung wide the doors of his boat-house on that day and went to work with a will on sundry small repairs. Barcombe was proud of his boat. If the boat had possessed a mind of its own it would have been equally proud of its coxswain, for he was a stalwart, lion-like man, of herculean frame, with simple thoughts and tastes, and a modest spirit. Many a time had his great muscular strength and daring been the means, at critical moments, of saving his boat from destruction on the Black Rocks outside the port.

"Are you going out to-day, Dan?" asked a soft, sweet voice of the coxswain, who was admiring the white and blue boat which, resting on its carriage, towered high over his head.

"Not to-day, Master Edwin," answered Barcombe, looking down at his questioner with a kindly smile. "There's never no wrecks goes on of a fine day like this."

"Of course not," returned the boy, with thoughtful gravity; "but you might be going out for exercise, you know."

"That's true, lad; but as we go out for exercise only once a quarter, we always choose the worst weather we can lay hold on. It 'ud be useless, d'ye see, to launch her an' pull out in fine weather; any cockleshell could do that safe enough. I like best when the wind's i' the nor'east, blowin' fit to cut the nose off your face, an' breakers thunderin' on the shore. I've seed it that rough, sometimes, that when we was out for exercise a wessel has drove on the Black Rocks, an' we've had to turn our exercise into action. Your father, when he was our Local Superintendent, used to take an oar sometimes for amusement at our quarterly exercises, for he was a splendid seaman, he was, and it was on one o' them occasions, when we was called unexpected to a wreck, that he lost his life through the fallin' of a block-tackle on his head. He laid down his life, as your dear mother says sometimes, to 'rescue the perishin'',—but I've told ye o' that many a time."

"Tell it again, Dan. I like to hear of it; I never tire of it. I do like to think of saving people's lives. It must be such grand work, as of course you know, for you have done it so often."

Edwin Boyne looked up admiringly at his herculean friend with glowing eyes and flushed countenance.

"Well, yes; through God's blessin' I 'have' helped to save a few lives in my day; an' you'll do the same, too, Master Edwin, if you live, for you're a reg'lar chip o' the old block."

"What 'is' a chip of the old block?" asked the boy, seriously.

The coxswain laughed as he replied, and tried to explain the expression in language so exceedingly nautical that Edwin was not much wiser. Then he proceeded to describe, by no means for the first time, the terrible storm in which the boy's father had been killed, while out rescuing the crew of a stranded schooner.

Edwin listened intently—we might almost say with eyes as well as with ears. He was a noble-looking little fellow, with not a particle of "brag" about him. His heroic aspirations had nothing to do with the wish to appear brave or manly. Being both, he never thought of appearances.

"I should like 'so' much to go off to a wreck with you," he said, when the coxswain had finished his narrative. "Don't you think I might, if nurse gave me leave to go. I'm quite sure that mother would if she were at home, for she always lets me do whatever I want. I could put on father's old life-belt, you know, and though I'm not yet strong enough to pull an oar, I could steer, perhaps. At any rate I could sit still and keep out of your way."

This cool proposal, delivered in an earnest voice and with a very appealing look, took Daniel Barcombe so much aback that he simply gazed at Edwin in mute surprise.

"Well now, my boy," he said slowly, "I rather think that your mother 'would' object—"

"Oh no, she wouldn't! I'm quite 'sure' of that," interrupted Edwin, anxiously.

The amiable coxswain was much perplexed. He was extremely fond of the boy, and knew that the liking was mutual, so that he shrank from the blighting of hopes and aspirations that were evidently very strong.

"You know well, my little man," he said, after a pause, "that I would do anything in reason to please you, but your mother not bein' here, an' your nurse bein' left in command o' the ship, so to speak, she might object, dee see?"

"When nurse does not agree with mother, I don't care about her objecting," said Edwin decisively.

There was no tone of threat or rebellion in this remark. It was quietly made as a mere statement of the condition of his mind.

"Besides," he continued, "we expect mother back by to-night's steamer, so I won't need to ask leave of nurse."

"Right you are, lad, for when the cap'en's aboard it's the first officer's dooty to play second fiddle; but I'm afeard—indeed I'm sure—that our noo Superintendent wouldn't let you go—not bein' one o' the reg'lar lifeboat crew, you know; but the day's comin', you may be sartin sure, when they'll be only too glad to get men like you to pull an oar in the lifeboat—so don't be cast down."

"Thank you, Barcombe, for saying that; but if my mother gives me leave to go, your new Superintendent has no right to forbid me; so, as mother and you are both willing, I will go in spite of him. Now I must leave you, for it's about lunch time. Good-bye, Barcombe."

Edwin Boyne—known at home as Eddy—held out his tiny hand to the lifeboat coxswain, who grasped it tenderly in a fist which his comrades were wont to compare to a shoulder of mutton.

"Good-bye, Master Edwin, an' don't dream about wrecks to-night, for the weather's settled down for a calm spell. An' don't get impatient. Why, you'll be a man a'most afore you know where you are, so keep up heart, my boy."

"I will," replied the urchin, walking gravely away, with the expression on his fair young face of one whose mind is firmly made up.

"Nurse, hand me down father's old life-belt, please," said Edwin, when he got home.

The obedient woman did as she was bid, and assisted the child to tie it on.

"Rather too big for me 'just now!'" he said, looking down at the mass of cork in which he was encased from the neck nearly to the knees. Then he looked solemnly up into nurse's face.

"Yes, Master Eddy, it 'is' a little too big; but you'll fill it some day."

With this comforting assurance the good woman sent him off to the day nursery, where he turned a table upside down, got into it, and, using the shovel as an oar, proceeded off to a wreck, where he spent the remainder of that day rescuing innumerable people from the raging sea, issuing stern commands to his lifeboat crew, encouraging timid women, quieting terrified children, and otherwise acting the part of a true hero.

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