Alger Horatio Jr.
Julius, The Street Boy
CHAPTER XXIX.
MARLOWE
Four days later Julius arrived about dusk in the village of Lawrenceburg. There was a citizen of this place against whom Mr. Taylor had given him a note to collect. He put up at the hotel, and after entering his name inquired where Mr. Philip Thompson resided.
“Two miles distant, on the Northcote road,” said the landlord. “Have you business with him?”
Julius answered in the affirmative.
“If you want to go over there after supper, I will send my boy to show you the way.”
“I think I will wait till morning,” said Julius, who felt tired. “My business will wait till then.”
There was a man sitting on the piazza of the tavern when Julius drove up. He was a tall man, rather shabbily built, with a slouching gait, who kept his eyes bent downward, while his face was partly shaded by a soft felt hat. Julius did not notice him, or rather did not do so particularly; but the stranger fixed his eyes eagerly on the boy’s face, and started perceptibly, while a look partly of recognition, partly of hatred, swept over his countenance.
I do not intend to make this man’s personality a mystery. It was Dan Marlowe, the burglar, whom, three years before, Julius had been instrumental in trapping, and who, until within two or three months, had been confined in Sing Sing prison. His escape has already been referred to.
He had now two ends to accomplish. One was to elude capture, the other to revenge himself on Julius.
While in prison he had heard from a fellow-prisoner that Julius was somewhere in the West. He could not ascertain where. Till to-day he had no clew whereby he might discover him; when all at once chance brought him face to face with his young enemy. In spite of his growth he recognized the boy, for he seldom forgot a face; but, to make certainty more certain, he lounged into the office after Julius had recorded his name, and examined the signature.
“Julius Taylor,” he repeated to himself. “The young cub has picked up another name since he left us. But it’s he—it’s the same Julius. I thought I couldn’t be mistaken. His face is the same, though he’s almost twice as large as he was. He little dreams that Dan Marlowe is on his track. I’d like to wring the boy’s neck!” he muttered to himself. “He’s cost me over two years in Sing Sing; and poor Jack’s there yet.”
Having satisfied himself, he went back to his seat on the piazza.
Pretty soon Julius came out, and gave a casual look at Marlowe. But the latter had his hat pulled down over his eyes, and not enough of his features could be seen for our hero to distinguish him. Besides, Julius was not thinking of Marlowe. He had no reason to suspect that his old companion was in the neighborhood. If not caught, he supposed that he was somewhere in hiding in the city of New York, or nearby.
Marlowe did not, however, care to run even a small risk of discovery. He had not changed as much as Julius, and the latter might probably recognize him. So, finding that our hero had also seated himself outside, he quietly arose from his chair, and went out to walk.
“An ill-looking fellow,” thought Julius, casually. “He looks like a tramp.”
Marlowe strolled off at random, not caring where he went. His sole object was to keep out of the way of Julius. He went perhaps a mile, and then, turning into a field, sat down on the grass. Here he remained for a long time. He did not set out on his return till he judged that it was near ten o’clock. When he entered the inn, not Julius alone, but all the other guests had retired; for in the country late hours are not popular.
“We were just going to shut up, Mr. Jones,” said the landlord.
Jones was the assumed name by which Marlowe now passed.
“I went out for a walk,” said, Marlowe, “and didn’t know how time was passing, having no watch with me.”
“You must like walking in the dark better than I do.”
“I wasn’t walking all the time,” said Marlowe. “I had some business on my mind, and went out to think it over. Who was that young fellow that came about six o’clock.
“Julius Taylor. He’s from Brookville. Do you wish to know him? If so, I will introduce you to him.”
“I only asked from curiosity,” said Marlowe, carelessly.
“His room is next to yours, No. 8. Yours is No. 7.”
This was what Marlowe wanted to know, and he heard the information with satisfaction. He proposed to make Julius a visit that night. What might be the result he did not stop to consider. He only knew that this was the boy to whom he owed two years of imprisonment, and that he would have him in his power. He did not ask himself what he should do. He did not consider whether he was about to endanger his own safety, and expose himself to the risk of recapture. His spirit was fierce and revengeful, and he had made up his mind to gratify it.
He called for a light, and ascended the staircase to his room, No. 7. He noticed the number over the door which Julius occupied, and outside he saw a pair of shoes, which had been left to be blacked.
“He’s been prospering,” he said to himself, gloomily, “while Jack and me have been shut up. He’s had a good home, and good fare, and grown up to consider himself a gentleman; while me and Jack, that brought him up, have been confined like wild beasts. That’s his pay for selling us to the cops. But the end is not yet. Marlowe’s on his track, and this night there’ll be a reckoning.”
He sat down on the side of the bed and waited. He wanted to make sure that all were asleep in the inn, that he might carry out his dark designs without interruption.
CHAPTER XXX.
CONCLUSION
Julius was tired, and fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. He slept so soundly that he did not hear Marlowe fumbling at the lock with some of the burglar’s tools which he always carried with him. Curiously he was dreaming of his old life, when he was under the guardianship of Jack and Morgan, and Marlowe was a constant visitor. It seemed to him that the latter had been accusing him to Jack, and was threatening him with uplifted arm, when, all at once, he was aroused from sleep by a violent shaking, and, opening his eyes, his first glance rested on the man of whom he had been dreaming.
He stared at him in bewilderment and alarm, but said nothing, such was his surprise.
“Well, boy,” said Marlowe, growing impatient, “why are you staring at me so hard? Don’t you know me?”
“Yes,” said Julius, the spell broken, “you are Dan Marlowe.”
“Did you see me downstairs?”
“Were you the man that was sitting on the piazza when I drove up?”
“Yes.”
“I wish I had known it,” thought Julius. “I should have been on my guard.”
“It is some time since we met,” said Marlowe.
“Yes, it is.”
“And I suppose,” he added, sneeringly, “you wish it had been longer.”
“You are right there; I didn’t care to see you again,” returned Julius, boldly.
“I don’t wonder at that, after your base treachery, you rascally hound!” said Marlowe, furiously. “Do you know how Jack and me spent the last two years?”
“In prison?” said Julius, hesitating.
“Yes; in prison, and we have you to thank for it. You might as well have turned against your own father as against Jack.”
“No,” said Julius, firmly. “I am sorry for Jack. I wouldn’t have gone against him, if there was any other way of saving Paul. Paul had been kind to me when I needed it. What did Jack ever do for me? We lived together when he was out of prison, but it was I that brought him all my earnings. I paid my own way and more, too, even when I was a boy of eight. I owe Jack nothing. But I am sorry for him all the same. I wish he could get free.”
“And what about me?” asked Marlowe, sneeringly. “Are you glad I am free?”
“No, I’m not,” said Julius, boldly. “I never liked you as well as Jack. He’s bad enough, but you’re worse. Though he didn’t take care of me, he was generally kind to me. Even if I owe him something, I owe you nothing.”
“But I owe you something, my chicken,” said Marlowe, between his teeth. “Do you know why I am here? No? Well, I’ll tell you. I met Ned Sanders soon after I got out, and he told me the tricks you played on him. I found out from him that you had come out West, and that’s why I came here. I hadn’t forgotten who sent me up. I swore, at the time, I’d be revenged, and now I’ve got the chance.”
The man looked so malicious—so possessed by the spirit of evil—that Julius could not help shuddering as he met his baleful gaze.
“What do you mean to do to me?” he asked, feeling helpless, as he realized that in spite of his increased strength he was no match for the stalwart ruffian.
“I mean to kill you,” said Marlowe, fiercely.
Julius shuddered, as well he might; but he answered: “If you do, your life will be in danger.”
“What do you mean?” quickly asked Marlowe, taking it as a threat.
“You will be hung.”
“They must catch me first,” said he, coolly. “But first you must answer me a question. How much money have you?”
“I can’t tell without counting.”
“Don’t dare to trifle with me, boy!”
“I am telling you the truth.”
It may be mentioned that, apart from his personal apprehension, Julius was anxious about his money. He had in a wallet six hundred dollars belonging to Mr. Taylor, which he had collected in various places. He was ambitious to justify his benefactor’s confidence, and carry it to him in safety; but Marlowe threatened to take both the money and his life. He was only a boy, but emergencies make men out of boys. He had been provided by Mr. Taylor with a revolver, not with any supposition that he would need it, but as a safeguard in case robbery should be attempted on the road. He had forgotten to put it under his pillow, but it was in the pocket of his coat, and that coat was hanging over a chair on the opposite side of the bed from that on which Marlowe was standing. He could only obtain possession of it by stratagem.
“Give me your money,” said Marlowe, fiercely.
“Then spare my life,” said Julius, assuming a tone of entreaty.
“I cannot promise,” said Marlowe; “but I will assuredly kill you at once unless you give me the money.”
“Then wait till I get it for you,” said Julius.
He jumped out of bed, Marlowe suspecting nothing, and put his hand in the pocket of his coat. He drew out, not a pocketbook, but the revolver, which he deliberately pointed at Marlowe.
“Dan Marlowe,” he said, quietly, “you are stronger than I, but this pistol is loaded, and I know how to use it. Come toward me, and I fire.”
“Confusion!” exclaimed the burglar, furiously, and his impulse was to spring upon Julius. But there was something in the boy’s resolute tone which made him pause.
“He wouldn’t be so cool if it wasn’t loaded,” he thought.
A doubt in the mind of Julius was solved. Marlowe had no pistol, or he would have produced it. Disagreeable as it was, the burglar stopped to parley. He could postpone his revenge, and only exact money now.
“Put up your pistol,” he said. “I only wanted to frighten you a bit. You’ve done me a bad turn, and you owe me some return. Give me all the money you have with you, and I’ll say quits.”
“I can’t do that,” said Julius, “for the money isn’t mine.”
“Whose is it?”
“It belongs to my guardian.”
“Is he rich?”
“Yes.”
“Then he can spare it. Tell him it was stolen from you.”
“I shall do no such thing,” said Julius, firmly. “It hasn’t been stolen yet, and won’t be, as I believe.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Marlowe, furiously, making a dash toward our hero.
“Hold!” shouted Julius. “One step farther and I fire.”
There is a popular impression that men of violence are brave; but it is a mistaken one. Marlowe had not the nerve to carry out his threat, while covered by a pistol in the hands of a resolute antagonist. There was another reason also. The partitions were thin, and the noise had aroused the gentleman sleeping in No. 9. He came out into the entry, and knocked at the door of No. 8.
“Put up your pistol, boy,” said Marlowe, hurriedly, “and I will open the door.”
Julius did not put it up, but hastily concealed it, and the door was opened.
The visitor was an elderly man in his nightclothes.
“How do you expect a man to sleep?” he said, peevishly, “when you are making such an infernal noise?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Marlowe, politely, “but I am just leaving my friend here, and shall retire at once. You won’t hear any more noise.”
“It is time it stopped,” said the visitor, not quite appeased. “Why, it’s after midnight!”
“Is it, really?” said Marlowe. “I did not think it so late. Good-night, Julius.”
“Good-night,” said our hero.
The visitor retired, and so did Marlowe. But Julius, distrusting his neighbor, not only locked, but barricaded the door, and put the revolver under his pillow. But he had no further visit from Marlowe. The latter, for prudential reasons, postponed the revenge which he still meant to take.
In the morning Julius looked for his enemy, but he was nowhere to be seen. Inquiring in a guarded way, he ascertained that Marlowe had taken an early breakfast and had gone away. It might be that he feared Julius would cause his arrest. At any rate, he was gone.
Julius never saw him again, but read in a newspaper, not long afterward, the closing incidents in the career of this dangerous ruffian. He made his way to Milwaukee, and resumed his old business. While engaged in entering a house by night, he was shot dead by the master of the house, who had heard him enter. It was a fitting end to a misspent life. From a boy he had warred against society, and now he had fallen at the hands of one of his intended victims.
* * * * * * * * *
But little remains to be told—too little for a separate chapter. Julius has redeemed the promise of his youth, and now in his early manhood possesses the respect and attachment, not only of Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, but of all who know him. His real estate speculation has turned out favorably. The property for which he paid fifteen hundred dollars is now worth three times that sum, owing to the rapid growth and increasing population of Brookville; but as it is likely to become still more valuable, he has decided not to sell yet. He has repaid Mr. Taylor the amount of the mortgage out of his earnings, and is now sole proprietor. He has assumed the management of Mr. Taylor’s large farm, and is likely in time to grow rich. It is reported that he is engaged to be married to a niece of Mrs. Taylor, who recently came from the East to visit her aunt; and it is not unlikely that the report is true. Though he can boast no proud lineage, and is even indebted to strangers for a name, the Taylors feel that the good qualities which he possesses will compensate for these deficiencies.
He has once visited New York. Last year he went to the East on business for Mr. Taylor, and sought out some of his old haunts. Among other places, he visited the Newsboys’ Lodging House, and, at the request of Mr. O’Connor, made a short speech to the boys, a portion of which will conclude this story:
“Boys,” he said, “it is but a few years since I was drifting about the streets like you, making my living by selling papers and blacking boots, ragged, and with a dreary prospect before me. I used to swear and lie, I remember very well, as I know many of you do. If I had stayed in the city I might be no better off now. But in a lucky moment I was induced by Mr. O’Connor to go West. There I found kind friends and a good home, and had a chance to secure a good education. Now I carry on a large farm for my benefactor, and second father, as I consider him, and I hope in time to become rich. I tell you, boys, it will pay you to leave the city streets and go out West. You may not be as lucky as I have been in finding rich friends, but it will be your own fault if you don’t get along. There are plenty of homes waiting to receive you, and plenty of work for you to do. If you want to prosper and grow up respectable, I advise you to come out as soon as you get the chance.”
THE END
THE PATERNOSTERS
“And do you really mean that we are to cross by the steamer, Mr. Virtue, while you go over in the Seabird? I do not approve of that at all. Fanny, why do you not rebel and say we won’t be put ashore? I call it horrid, after a fortnight on board this dear little yacht, to have to get on to a crowded steamer, with no accommodation and lots of seasick women, perhaps, and crying children. You surely cannot be in earnest?”
“I do not like it any more than you do, Minnie; but, as Tom says we had better do it, and my husband agrees with him, I am afraid we must submit. Do you really think it is quite necessary, Mr. Virtue? Minnie and I are both good sailors, you know; and we would much rather have a little extra tossing about on board the Seabird than the discomforts of a steamer.”
“I certainly think that it will be best, Mrs. Grantham. You know very well we would rather have you on board, and that we shall suffer from your loss more than you will by going the other way; but there’s no doubt the wind is getting up, and though we don’t feel it much here, it must be blowing pretty hard outside. The Seabird is as good a seaboat as anything of her size that floats; but you don’t know what it is to be out in anything like a heavy sea in a thirty-tonner. It would be impossible for you to stay on deck, and we should have our hands full, and should not be able to give you the benefit of our society. Personally, I should not mind being out in the Seabird in any weather, but I would certainly rather not have ladies on board.”
“You don’t think we should scream, or do anything foolish, Mr. Virtue?” Minnie Graham said indignantly.
“Not at all, Miss Graham. Still, I repeat, the knowledge that there are women on board, delightful at other times, does not tend to comfort in bad weather. Of course, if you prefer it, we can put off our start till this puff of wind has blown itself out. It may have dropped before morning. It may last some little time. I don’t think myself that it will drop, for the glass has fallen, and I am afraid we may have a spell of broken weather.”
“Oh, no; don’t put it off,” Mrs. Grantham said; “we have only another fortnight before James must be back again in London, and it would be a great pity to lose three or four days perhaps; and we have been looking forward to cruising about among the Channel Islands, and to St. Malo, and all those places. Oh, no; I think the other is much the better plan—that is, if you won’t take us with you?”
“It would be bad manners to say that I won’t, Mrs. Grantham; but I must say I would rather not. It will be a very short separation. Grantham will take you on shore at once, and as soon as the boat comes back I shall be off. You will start in the steamer this evening, and get into Jersey at nine or ten o’clock to-morrow morning; and if I am not there before you, I shall not be many hours after you.”
“Well, if it must be it must,” Mrs. Grantham said, with an air of resignation. “Come, Minnie, let us put a few things into a hand-bag for to-night. You see the skipper is not to be moved by our pleadings.”
“That is the worst of you married women, Fanny,” Miss Graham said, with a little pout. “You get into the way of doing as you are ordered. I call it too bad. Here have we been cruising about for the last fortnight, with scarcely a breath of wind, and longing for a good brisk breeze and a little change and excitement, and now it comes at last, we are to be packed off in a steamer. I call it horrid of you, Mr. Virtue. You may laugh, but I do.”
Tom Virtue laughed, but he showed no signs of giving way, and ten minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Grantham and Miss Graham took their places in the gig, and were rowed into Southampton Harbor, off which the Seabird was lying.
The last fortnight had been a very pleasant one, and it had cost the owner of the Seabird as much as his guests to come to the conclusion that it was better to break up the party for a few hours.
Tom Virtue had, up to the age of five-and-twenty, been possessed of a sufficient income for his wants. He had entered at the bar, not that he felt any particular vocation in that direction, but because he thought it incumbent upon him to do something. Then, at the death of an uncle, he had come into a considerable fortune, and was able to indulge his taste for yachting, which was the sole amusement for which he really cared, to the fullest.
He sold the little five-tonner he had formerly possessed, and purchased the Seabird. He could well have afforded a much larger craft, but he knew that there was far more real enjoyment in sailing to be obtained from a small craft than a large one, for in the latter he would be obliged to have a regular skipper, and would be little more than a passenger, whereas on board the Seabird, although his first hand was dignified by the name of skipper, he was himself the absolute master. The boat carried the aforesaid skipper, three hands, and a steward, and with them he had twice been up the Mediterranean, across to Norway, and had several times made the circuit of the British Isles.
He had unlimited confidence in his boat, and cared not what weather he was out in her. This was the first time since his ownership of her that the Seabird had carried lady passengers. His friend Grantham, an old school and college chum, was a hard-working barrister, and Virtue had proposed to him to take a month’s holiday on board the Seabird.
“Put aside your books, old man,” he said. “You look fagged and overworked; a month’s blow will do you all the good in the world.”
“Thank you, Tom; I have made up my mind for a month’s holiday, but I can’t accept your invitation, though I should enjoy it of all things. But it would not be fair to my wife; she doesn’t get very much of my society, and she has been looking forward to our having a run together. So I must decline.”
Virtue hesitated a moment. He was not very fond of ladies’ society, and thought them especially in the way on board a yacht; but he had a great liking for his friend’s wife, and was almost as much at home in his house as in his own chambers.
“Why not bring the wife with you?” he said, as soon as his mind was made up. “It will be a nice change for her too; and I have heard her say that she is a good sailor. The accommodation is not extensive, but the after-cabin is a pretty good size, and I would do all I could to make her comfortable. Perhaps she would like another lady with her; if so by all means bring one. They could have the after-cabin, you could have the little stateroom, and I could sleep in the saloon.”
“It is very good of you, Tom, especially as I know that it will put you out frightfully; but the offer is a very tempting one. I will speak to Fanny, and let you have an answer in the morning.”
“That will be delightful, James,” Mrs. Grantham said, when the invitation was repeated to her. “I should like it of all things; and I am sure the rest and quiet and the sea air will be just the thing for you. It is wonderful, Tom Virtue making the offer; and I take it as a great personal compliment, for he certainly is not what is generally called a lady’s man. It is very nice, too, of him to think of my having another lady on board. Whom shall we ask? Oh, I know,” she said suddenly; “that will be the thing of all others. We will ask my cousin Minnie; she is full of fun and life, and will make a charming wife for Tom!”
James Grantham laughed.
“What schemers you all are, Fanny! Now I should call it downright treachery to take anyone on board the Seabird with the idea of capturing its master.”
“Nonsense, treachery!” Mrs. Grantham said indignantly; “Minnie is the nicest girl I know, and it would do Tom a world of good to have a wife to look after him. Why, he is thirty now, and will be settling down into a confirmed old bachelor before long. It’s the greatest kindness we could do him, to take Minnie on board; and I am sure he is the sort of man any girl might fall in love with when she gets to know him. The fact is, he’s shy! He never had any sisters, and spends all his time in winter at that horrid club; so that really he has never had any women’s society, and even with us he will never come unless he knows we are alone. I call it a great pity, for I don’t know a pleasanter fellow than he is. I think it will be doing him a real service in asking Minnie; so that’s settled. I will sit down and write him a note.”
“In for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose,” was Tom Virtue’s comment when he received Mrs. Grantham’s letter, thanking him warmly for the invitation, and saying that she would bring her cousin, Miss Graham, with her, if that young lady was disengaged.
As a matter of self-defense he at once invited Jack Harvey, who was a mutual friend of himself and Grantham, to be of the party.
“Jack can help Grantham to amuse the women,” he said to himself; “that will be more in his line than mine. I will run down to Cowes to-morrow and have a chat with Johnson; we shall want a different sort of stores altogether from those we generally carry, and I suppose we must do her up a bit below.”
Having made up his mind to the infliction of female passengers, Tom Virtue did it handsomely, and when the party came on board at Ryde they were delighted with the aspect of the yacht below. She had been repainted, the saloon and ladies’ cabin were decorated in delicate shades of gray, picked out with gold; and the upholsterer, into whose hands the owner of the Seabird had placed her, had done his work with taste and judgment, and the ladies’ cabin resembled a little boudoir.
“Why, Tom, I should have hardly known her!” Grantham, who had often spent a day on board the Seabird, said.
“I hardly know her myself,” Tom said, rather ruefully; “but I hope she’s all right, Mrs. Grantham, and that you and Miss Graham will find everything you want.”
“It is charming!” Mrs. Grantham said enthusiastically. “It’s awfully good of you, Tom, and we appreciate it; don’t we, Minnie? It is such a surprise, too; for James said that while I should find everything very comfortable, I must not expect that a small yacht would be got up like a palace.”
So a fortnight had passed; they had cruised along the coast as far as Plymouth, anchoring at night at the various ports on the way. Then they had returned to Southampton, and it had been settled that as none of the party, with the exception of Virtue himself, had been to the Channel Islands, the last fortnight of the trip should be spent there. The weather had been delightful, save that there had been some deficiency in wind, and throughout the cruise the Seabird had been under all the sail she could spread. But when the gentlemen came on deck early in the morning a considerable change had taken place; the sky was gray and the clouds flying fast overhead.
“We are going to have dirty weather,” Tom Virtue said at once. “I don’t think it’s going to be a gale, but there will be more sea on than will be pleasant for ladies. I tell you what, Grantham; the best thing will be for you to go on shore with the two ladies, and cross by the boat to-night. If you don’t mind going directly after breakfast I will start at once, and shall be at St. Helier’s as soon as you are.”
And so it had been agreed, but not, as has been seen, without opposition and protest on the part of the ladies.
Mrs. Grantham’s chief reason for objecting had not been given. The little scheme on which she had set her mind seemed to be working satisfactorily. From the first day Tom Virtue had exerted himself to play the part of host satisfactorily, and had ere long shaken off any shyness he may have felt towards the one stranger of the party, and he and Miss Graham had speedily got on friendly terms. So things were going on as well as Mrs. Grantham could have expected.
No sooner had his guests left the side of the yacht than her owner began to make his preparations for a start.
“What do you think of the weather, Watkins?” he asked his skipper.
“It’s going to blow hard, sir; that’s my view of it, and if I was you I shouldn’t up anchor to-day. Still, it’s just as you likes; the Seabird won’t mind it if we don’t. She has had a rough time of it before now; still, it will be a case of wet jackets, and no mistake.”
“Yes, I expect we shall have a rough time of it, Watkins, but I want to get across. We don’t often let ourselves be weather-bound, and I am not going to begin it to-day. We had better house the top-mast at once, and get two reefs in the mainsail. We can get the other down when we get clear of the island. Get number three jib up, and the leg-of-mutton mizzen; put two reefs in the foresail.”
Tom and his friend Harvey, who was a good sailor, assisted the crew in reefing down the sails, and a few minutes after the gig had returned and been hoisted in, the yawl was running rapidly down Southampton waters.
“We need hardly have reefed quite so closely,” Jack Harvey said, as he puffed away at his pipe.
“Not yet, Jack; but you will see she has as much as she can carry before long. It’s all the better to make all snug before starting; it saves a lot of trouble afterwards, and the extra canvas would not have made ten minutes’ difference to us at the outside. We shall have pretty nearly a dead beat down the Solent. Fortunately the tide will be running strong with us, but there will be a nasty kick-up there. You will see we shall feel the short choppy seas there more than we shall when we get outside. She is a grand boat in a really heavy sea, but in short waves she puts her nose into it with a will. Now, if you will take my advice, you will do as I am going to do; put on a pair of fisherman’s boots and oilskin and sou’-wester. There are several sets for you to choose from below.”
As her owner had predicted, the Seabird put her bowsprit under pretty frequently in the Solent; the wind was blowing half a gale, and as it met the tide it knocked up a short, angry sea, crested with white heads, and Jack Harvey agreed that she had quite as much sail on her as she wanted. The cabin doors were bolted, and all made snug to prevent the water getting below before they got to the race off Hurst Castle; and it was well that they did so, for she was as much under water as she was above.
