CHAPTER X.

TOM'S ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY GUINEAS.

THE "Juno" was back in Plymouth in less than two years. And when Tom and Gideon were paid off, Tom was in a fever of anxiety to see Robins and hear how his venture had prospered. He chose to go alone. Robins had a house in the Barbican, where his wife and children lived, and there Tom found him, and was informed that his twenty-five guineas had been turned and turned again to such advantage that one other voyage would make him the owner of one hundred and fifty guineas.

Now, Tom Adderley, though ignorant, was no fool, and Gideon's words had opened his eyes. He knew as well as any one could that money is not made thus rapidly in honest, lawful trade. Robins told him nothing, and he asked no questions, but he knew perfectly that the man was a smuggler, and that he ought to have nothing to say to him. But—a hundred and fifty guineas! Fancy walking into Burdeck the owner of such a sum as that! Why, no one in Burdeck had ever seen so much money! Very likely there were few that could count it. Tom felt that he could not give up the chance of this triumph, and he told himself that even if he took his money now, it had been made in the same way, so where was the use of stopping short of that magnificent hundred and fifty? And he did not actually know that Robins was a smuggler—only that Gideon was sure to say so.

Gideon did say so, and said a good deal more than that. In fact, he made himself so unpleasant that he and Tom had high words for the first time, and Tom went off and entered his name on board the "Inconstant," a frigate which had been in commission for some little time, and had put into Plymouth for repairs and a few new hands. She sailed the next day, so that Tom did not see Gideon again even to tell him what he had done.

Charlie Egerton was on board the "Inconstant," and when Tom came to himself and was very sorry for his behaviour to Gideon, he got Mr. Egerton to write a letter for him, which was sent to Captain Egerton, now living near Plymouth, who would, Tom was sure, do his best to find the old sailor.

The "Inconstant" was paid off in about a year, and Tom found himself once more in Plymouth, and free.

As soon as he could shake off the companionship of his late shipmates, he hastened to the house in the Barbican where he had left the Robins family. Alas! He found strangers living there, who did not even know the name of Robins. Tom knew no one in the neighbourhood, but he felt that he must make inquiries, at any risk; and it seemed possible that at the nearest public-house he might hear something of Robins.

He walked into the bar, asked for a glass of ale, and said to the lad who drew it for him, "I came here to see an old messmate of mine—a man called Peter Robins—and he lived over the way there, at the corner house. Do you know where he is now?"

"I'm sure I don't know, sir," said the youth, carelessly.

But a door, which was already half-way open, was now opened a little more, and a jolly, good-tempered-looking woman, with bright ribbons in her cap, looked in at Tom. After watching him for a few moments, she said—

"Look here, you Jack ashore—you in the blue cap. Step this way. I want to speak to you."

Tom followed her into her snug little parlour, and she shut the door.

"Was it you I heard asking about Peter Robins just now?"

"It was, ma'am. He is an old shipmate of mine."

"Don't tell me! Robins never sailed in a king's ship!"

"No, ma'am; merchant ship—'Star of the Sea,' from Liverpool. I was in her too, but was pressed for the navy."

"Ay—that's more likely! Well, you're a decent looking lad, and I'll do you a good turn. Don't be heard asking for Robins any more. Robins—well, truth's best—he was a friend of mine, and many and many a keg of Hollands—But that don't matter to you. He got too venturesome, did Robins, with lace. 'Twas the lace that ruined him. His boat was seized, and he had a mighty narrow shave of being hung. And if you want to find him now, you may start for Botany Bay. That's the truth, young man. Why, what's the matter now?"

"My money!" moaned poor Tom. "Oh, mother, mother! What's to become of me now?"

He broke away from her, and ran out of the house. The fresh air brought him so far to himself that he walked along quietly. The next thing he knew, he was standing on the Hoe, near the Citadel, gazing out to sea.

All his money gone! Mother's golden guineas, father's little farm, his own fortune that he was so proud of—all gone! What was he to do now? He had about ten guineas—no more. For, counting on the money from Robins, and being without old Gideon's care and kindness, he had been a little extravagant of late. Only last night he had lost a good deal of money at some game, and still more in betting on his own play. He could never face his mother and father now! To be more than ten years away, and to return no richer than he went! That he would never do. To set to work again to save money? There was no prize-money to be had now, and it would be years before he could scrape together any considerable sum. To go to sea again, to forget his mother, put away all thoughts of home, to forget Gideon and his teaching, and enjoy life like other sailors;—this, he thought, was the only thing left for him to do.

"I'll go back to the 'Royal Tar,' treat the fellows all round, spend my money as fast as I can, and go to sea again. It's no use thinking of anything else. Gideon warned me, and I wouldn't heed him. I've lost him, and I've lost my own people, and there's no use in trying to be good; the bad comes more natural. I give up, and I'll have some fun, anyhow."

And in order to begin as soon as possible to be exceedingly jolly and merry, Tom here began to sing. He had a fine mellow voice, sweet and tuneful. And as he strode along, meaning to go through Plymouth and make his way to the public-house in Dock (as Devonport was then called) where he had left his comrades, he shouted out a long ditty about "the saucy 'Arethusa,'" and dashed along at a great pace.

Presently he almost ran against a gentleman with only one arm, who was coming out of a shop. And at the same moment, some one laid hold of him, saying—

"I'd know his pipe among a thousand! Stay a moment, Tom."

Tom turned. The speaker was Gideon Terlizzeck, and the gentleman was Captain Egerton.

"Why, Adderley, is this you?" said the captain, doubtfully; not doubting that this was Tom, but doubting much whether Tom was in a fit condition to be spoken to by his old captain.

"'Tis me, sir," said Tom. And he added, after a pause, "I'm all right, sir. I'm quite sober."

"Yes, I see you are.—Gideon, bring him home with you.—Mrs. Egerton's waiting for me, but I shall see you again presently, Tom. Gideon has been looking for you. We heard this morning that the 'Inconstant' was paid off."

"Yes, sir. You're very kind, Captain Egerton.—Oh, Gideon, Gideon, but I wish I'd never left you!"

"Come along, my lad; come with me now. Where have you been staying, Tom?"

"'Royal Tar,' near the dockyard gate."

"Ay, I know it. Your kit will be safe there; 'tis an honest house. The captain lives out the other way, on the Laira Road; and I live with him."

"Don't go to sea no more?" asked Tom.

"No more—unless the captain goes, and wishes to take me. He's served his time for his flag, and will be an admiral pretty soon, and his health has not been the same since he lost his arm. So I think his sea-going days are over; and, if so, mine are over too."

"Ay, ay," said Tom, in a dreary, absent tone. He did not more than half understand what Gideon said, and though he walked along beside his old friend, he did not know where he was going. His mind was in such a tumult of grief and anger—anger with Robins, not with himself—that he could think of nothing else. And all the time a small voice kept saying to him, "You are rightly served; you deserved to lose your money."

Gideon became silent when he saw that Tom did not attend to him. They left the town behind them, and walked along a fine open road, with the Laira (an inlet of the harbour) on one side, and on the other pretty little domains with gardens and comfortable houses, mostly inhabited by half-pay naval officers. At the gate of one of these Gideon stopped. There was a tiny red-brick gate-house, and to this he led the way.

"Here's where I've slung my hammock," said he, as he unlocked the door.

Tom roused up for the first time, and looked round with some interest. The one room was in the most exquisite state of cleanliness and order, but to our eyes it would have looked very bare. There was just enough furniture for one person, with an extra chair for a visitor. The floor was tiled, and the tiles were rubbed till they were as red as if new. Before the clumsy, comfortable, wooden armchair lay a small square of carpet, neatly edged round with fringe. On the white walls, which might have been white-washed that morning, hung a model of a frigate, and a picture representing a sea-fight, wherein smoke was the most conspicuous feature; a coffee-pot, a frying-pan, and a small tin saucepan. The little grate held a spark of fire, and a shining kettle set on the hob. Big hooks in the walls showed that when Gideon said he slung his hammock here, he had used no figure of speech; indeed, the hammock, its canvas as white as snow, lay rolled up neatly on a low shelf. Another shelf held a few cups and saucers and plates, and there was a cupboard for provisions. Gideon drew Tom in, and shut the door.

"My house, Tom. You're welcome, my son, right welcome. Do you know, I've prayed for this moment, many and many a time. Isn't it snug, Tom? Isn't it, now?" the old man said, looking proudly round.

He had taken Tom's hand in his. But now Tom pulled it away, dropped into the armchair, and laid his arms on the table. Down went his head, till his face was hidden on his outstretched arms, and then great sobs shook his broad shoulders, and poor Tom, quite broken down by Gideon's kindness and a sudden sense of his own unworthiness, cried like a baby.

"My lad! My dear lad! I sought you all yesterday and this morning, for to break the bad news to you like, but never went to the 'Royal Tar.' I went to the quiet old place where you and I used to stop."

"You know, then, about Robins, Gideon?" said Tom, raising his head and rubbing the tears away.

"Yes. The captain was in Plymouth the day his boat, and some others too, were seized, and he happened to mention it to me."

"Does the captain know about my money?"

"Yes; I told him as how Robins was an old comrade of yours, and that you had trusted him with some money to trade with. I had for to tell him that much—I'll explain why presently. How did you hear of it?"

"I went to his house, and the woman who has the public-house opposite told me. I was going back to the 'Royal Tar' when you met me."

[Illustration: GREAT SOBS SHOOK HIS BROAD SHOULDERS, AND POOR TOM . . . CRIED LIKE A BABY.]

"Tom, I'm sorry, 'very' sorry for you."

"Gideon, you're not sorry that I've lost that money. You can't be; for you 'are' good and upright. You warned me. I mind you said,—

"'Get back your twenty-five guineas that you gave him, and don't take another shilling, for his earnings are dishonest money, and you'll have no blessing on it.'

"Those were your words, and I wouldn't mind them. And now I'm ruined altogether."

"You've lost the money, Tom, but you've escaped a much worse thing than that. You'll soon see that you've a deal to be thankful for. That fellow Robins saved his life by turning king's evidence, and he gave your name as having given funds towards the business. 'Twere then I told the captain about it. And he went and got a lawyer, and they saw Robins, and made him own up that he told you 'twas all honest trade. And so, by saying how you had sailed with him, and giving you a good character, the captain got you out of that scrape, which might have been a very ugly one."

"Gideon, I'll tell you the truth. Robins told me 'twas all right, as you say, but I didn't believe him—not that last time."

"Well, I never was asked about anything but the first time. You never gave him any more, did you?"

"No. 'Twas very good of the captain to do all this for me, but 'twas better of you, Gideon, for I behaved ungrateful to you."

"You was angry, but you wrote, if you remember. Indeed, I didn't wait for that to forgive you, Tom. That letter was the means of bringing me to my present comfortable anchorage. I'm gardener, under the mistress, and I mind the pony, under the captain; and I get my dinner at the house, and live here in great peace and comfort. At first I had a girl to do for me, but, bless you, she made work for me—she did indeed. Females don't seem to me to know straight from crooked, nor yet how to put a real finish on anything. I do for myself now. Have a pipe, Tom? 'Twill soothe your spirits."

Pipes being lighted, both men were silent for a time. Presently a well-known voice called—

"Lodge ahoy! Are you there, Terlizzeck? Gate!"

Gideon hurried out to admit the pony carriage. Mrs. Egerton was driving, and as soon as she was inside the gate, she drew up.

"Adderley here?" said the captain.

"Ay, ay, sir," answered Tom, appearing at the door.

"Oh, come here, Tom Adderley," said Mrs. Egerton, "and let me thank you for saving my boy. It's an old story now, I know, but, you see, I never met you before."

"I'm sure, ma'am, you're very welcome," said Tom, blushing all over.

"Come up to the house to dinner with Gideon," said the captain, "and you'll see Mr. Egerton. He is at home, you know."

"Is he going afloat again, sir?" inquired Tom.

"Oh no, not just yet," Mrs. Egerton replied hastily.

The captain laughed, and said, "Drive on, Carrie." And off they drove.

"Nov, Tom, you stay here and make yourself at home, till such time as I hail you from the other end of the drive; then come to me. I must go to take the pony and make all snug."

"Let me go along and help you," said Tom. "I haven't forgotten how to tackle a pony yet."

By the time the pony was rubbed down, and the carriage washed, and the neat little stable, coach-house, and yard made snug, a bell rang.

"That's for dinner," said Gideon. "I used to live altogether in my own berth, but the mistress found out that I am no great hand at cooking, beyond a slice of fried bacon or an egg, so she regulated that I should dine here, and the moment the captain is served—and of course Mr. Charlie or any visitor—she carves for me, and I has my dinner in a little room off the kitchen. All to myself, like Joseph and his brethren—ye mind that, Tom? This way."

After dinner, Tom had a few kind words from the captain and Mrs. Egerton, and was then taken by Gideon to see the garden. Mrs. Egerton understood gardening well, and in Gideon she had a most zealous and painstaking assistant. The rows of peas and beans were as straight and even as if made by machinery. The cabbages were cut in rows—no looking about for the best was permitted here; and as each row disappeared, the ground was dug over and raked smooth. Not a morsel of rough ground was to be seen. As to weeds, they never had a chance of getting beyond two saucy little leaves.

The only point upon which Gideon and his mistress differed was that he, in his love of order, wanted to tie the rose trees to sticks, and to force every one of them to grow in exactly the same form; also, when a bed of mignonette began to look a little bit straggling, though still in full blossom, Gideon would have liked to pull it all up and rake the bed over, "trim and tidy." These things Mrs. Egerton would not allow, but, in spite of her, the flower garden was somewhat severely tidy.

Tom, however, approved of all he saw, and thought of mother's little garden at home with the bees in the flowers—mother's garden that he would never see again.

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