CHAPTER VIII

FOXY AND PHIL

THE "Stormy Petrel," as Jeremiah Jackson's vessel was called, remained nearly a week at Granville, discharging her cargo, and loading again with various goods for Southampton.

During these days Tad was in a miserably uncertain state of mind. At one time he would almost resolve to take the good skipper's advice, and go home to face bravely anything that might happen. At another, he shrank from the thought of returning, and felt as though he could far more easily brave any amount of unknown dangers, than go back to the home troubles that he knew so well.

On the afternoon of the day before the schooner was to sail, Tad was standing about on the wharf feeling very unhappy, and very uncertain as to what course to take. While he wandered listlessly round, he met a boy about twelve years of age, with a monkey in his arms. A small organ was strapped across the lad's shoulders, and when he turned the handle of the instrument, it ground out a horrible parody of a popular French tune, and the monkey, leaping from its bearer's arms, danced a queer kind of hornpipe on the top of the organ, tossing its little red cap in the air, and pretending to be in the best of good spirits. What a feeble pretence this was, however, even Tad could see, for the poor little beast had a face almost as pinched and woebegone as that of the organ boy, and that was saying a great deal.

As it happened, Tad was still mooning over the second half of his dinner, so much absorbed was he in perplexing thought. All on board the schooner had been too busy that day to have a proper dinner set out, and Tad had received his rations of bread and salt pork, and a substantial baked apple dumpling, and had been told to go on shore and eat it there. The bread and meat had been eaten, and the first hunger being appeased, Tad had once more fallen into a brown study, out of which he was roused only when the poor little organ lad and his monkey had come quite near, and were casting longing glances upon the dumpling which Tad held—only half folded in paper—in his hand.

The mute language of want is one which the eyes speak very plainly. At least this language is plain enough to those who have suffered from hunger, and Tad knew only too well what it was to be hungry. So when he saw the longing look in the eyes both of boy and beast, he promptly handed over his dumpling, and for a while forgot his own troubles in the delight with which his bounty was received.

The organ boy broke off a generous piece first for his little charge, then sitting down in a quiet corner of the wharf, he began to eat his own share, gratefully smiling and nodding his thanks to Tad, but not saying a word.

"The little chap's a Frenchman, for sure," said Tad to himself, "and can't speak no English, and he sees plain enough as how I ain't a countryman of his. That's why he don't try to talk to me. Still he may have learned a few words of English while he carried his organ round; I'll try him and see if he understands me."

"Look here," said Tad, laying a hand on the little lad's shoulder to arrest his attention, "are you a French boy, or what?"

The child shook his head, but whether this meant that he was not a French boy or that he did not understand what was being said to him, Tad could not tell.

"I do wish I knowed if you can understand what I says to you," said Tad; "I'd like to have a talk with you if you do but understand and speak a little bit of English. Now, what's your name?"

The organ boy looked full in Tad's face, then glanced round timidly, and said:

"Hush, not so loud! I'm English, like you; my name's Phil Bates, but I've a French master, and he's forbidden me to speak to any of my own people, and if he catches me at it, don't he beat me just!"

His tone and manner were quiet and restrained, and his language more refined than might have been expected in a boy of his appearance and employment.

"And how do you come to be with a French master?" inquired Tad.

"Oh, my aunt, (her I lived with after father and mother died) she sort of sold me to old Foxy. She was poor and had some children of her own, and was glad to be rid of me, and so Foxy (Renard is his name) gave a half sov for me, and he's got me, worse luck!"

"Was you sold here in France?" asked Tad.

"No, Foxy went over to England for something or other. We was livin' not far from Southampton, and he happened to see me standin' at auntie's cottage door, and her close by. And says he to her in that wonderful lingo of his, 'Mine good womans, is dis so pretty boy your own cheaild?'

"And says auntie, 'No, he ain't, he's only a nevvy.'"

"So then Foxy says, 'It is for such boy dat I am looking, good madame; dis one will be quaite suit for my work, and I will give truly gold for him, one piece of ten shilling for the cheaild, and wat you call half crown for his clothes—all dat he have. So den mine good womans, is dis one bargain?'

"Them was his very words!"

"Why, he reg'lar bought you!" cried Tad.

"Yes, in course he did. Well—my aunt she says 'No' when he asks her if that was a bargain, and she cried a bit and said somethin' about her poor dead sister's child, and cried again and said 'Yes' to Foxy, and—well—here I am!"

And the boy stuffed the last remnant of the apple dumpling into his mouth, and getting up, slung the organ over his shoulder, and took the monkey in his arms again. He was just moving away, when a harsh, hoarse voice behind Tad said angrily:

"And wat is dis dat I hear? Can it be dat de boy Anglais wat am in my care to learn de French language have once again disobey, and is speaking his mudder tongue? Ah, mine cheaild, you did not tink dat over dere, hiding and watching 'mong de rubbidge on de water side, was your master! But now who am you?" went on Renard, addressing himself to Tad, "and how come you to dis country?"

"I came on that schooner," replied the lad, pointing towards the "Stormy Petrel."

"You look not like a sailor," remarked Renard, eyeing the boy suspiciously.

"I ain't one neither," said Tad.

"Den widout doubt you shall return to Angleterre in dis same boat?" suggested the man.

"I don't know that I shall," rejoined Tad, his face clouding over again.

"La France is a lov'ly country, mon cher," remarked Renard. "It shall be better for you to stay here; go not back across de sea."

"But I ain't got nothin' to do here," said Tad. "No country's lovely when a chap's starvin'."

"But have you not over de sea in Angleterre some peoples dat waits for you?"

"No," replied Tad.

"Good! Den hark at me!" said Foxy, laying one brown, claw-like hand on Tad's shoulder, and fixing his yellow-green eyes on the boy's face. "Let sail away dat ship, and you take service wid me. Philipe here, and his so lov'ly monkey shall your camarades be, and we weel go togedder about, and all so gay happy be—eh?"

Tad did not answer. Here again was an offer which he did not find it easy either to accept or refuse. Instinctively, he shrank from this cat-eyed man, with his repulsive face and his strange lingo. And yet, would he be worse off with him than with his home people? For all Tad's lessons—hard though they had been—had not yet taught him that to choose the right—however unpromising—was the only safe way. He was still on the lookout for the easiest and pleasantest path through life, and had no thought of seeking first the kingdom of heaven and the righteousness of God.

Renard waited quietly for a minute or two, furtively watching the boy's face. Tad glanced round and saw him, and recoiled from him as from some poisonous reptile. Indeed his fear of the man was so real that he hesitated to say the words which would pledge him to this new and strange service. Perhaps after all he would have decided to return with Jeremiah Jackson to England, had not Phil, the organ boy, gazed wistfully up into Tad's eyes, whispering "Do—do join us! I'm that lonely and desp'rate as I don't know how to bear myself."

"You really want me?" said Tad, to whom—after all his many experiences—the thought of being wanted by some one was very sweet.

"I do, dreffully," replied the child.

"That settles it, then!" said Tad. "All right, mister," he added, turning to Renard, "I don't mind working for you, only what about wages?"

"Ah, mine good friend, we shall talk of dat leetle affairs later. And for de present, will you not fetch your tings from de boat?" suggested Foxy with a leer that showed a line of black, ragged stumps of teeth.

"I've got nothin' save a very few clothes," answered Tad, "but I'll bring 'em at once, and say good-bye to Jeremiah Jackson at the same time."

"Jeremie Jacqueson?" repeated Foxy. "Say you dat he is de man wat sailed you to la France?"

"Yes; what's the matter?" inquired Tad.

"De matter is dat you shall not make your adieu to Jeremie," replied Foxy with a threatening look. "He is enemy of me, and he weel hold you back and not suffer you to come wid me."

"Nonsense, mister," said Tad, "he's got no right to interfere; I can do as I please."

Foxy shook his head.

"Fetch dose tings of your, but say not one leetle word to Jeremie of old Renard; so den all will go well, and when de ship sail, you shall be far from here, and Jeremie, my enemy, finds you not."

Once more Tad hesitated. This secrecy did not please him; and besides, it seemed ungrateful to leave the good skipper without a word of acknowledgment and farewell.

The wily Frenchman saw the hesitation, and determined to clinch the matter once for all.

"Ma foi, mine boy!" said he roughly. "If it like you not to do wat I tell you, go—go to your Jeremie, and come not back. I shall find oders dat weel be enchante to work for good, kind, old Renard," and the man took little Phil by the arm and began to walk away.

"Stop, stop, mister!" cried Tad. "Wait for me. I'll just run on board for my things, and I'll be with you in a minute. I promise I won't tell the skipper nothin', as you say he ain't no friend of yours."

Tad kept his word, and in three minutes he had joined the Frenchman and little Phil, and thereby started on a new and perilous road in his journey of life.