LITMIR.BIZ

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his father and mother, for Baltimore; how Henry Burns’s aunt, with whom he had been boarding, had asked when he would return; how Harvey’s mother had answered that she hoped yet to persuade the boy to accompany them to Europe; and how Miss Matilda Burns had said, then, she should expect him when he arrived – no sooner – and had remarked, smiling, that if he didn’t come back at all she should know he had gone to Europe.

      “It’s only for a month, you know,” suggested young Mr. Jenkins, almost as though he had been reading Harvey’s thoughts.

      Harvey sat for a moment, thinking hard.

      “Isn’t it pretty cold down there in the bay this time of year?” he asked.

      “Why, bless you, no,” replied Mr. Jenkins, laughing at the suggestion. “Don’t you know you’re in the South, now, my boy? This is the coldest day, right now, that we’ll have till January. And if we have a touch of winter – which isn’t likely – why, there’s a good, comfortable cabin to warm up in.”

      “Are we sure to get back in a month?”

      “Joe, when are you due back here?” called Mr. Jenkins.

      “Middle of December,” came the reply.

      “I’m most inclined to try it,” said Harvey, hesitatingly.

      Mr. Jenkins slapped him on the back, then shook his hand warmly.

      “You’re the right sort,” he said. “We’ll have a lark.”

      And Harvey knew from that moment that, for better or worse, be it a foolish venture or not, he was in for it.

      “What do I need to get for the trip?” he asked. “Guess I’d better step up into the town and buy some boots and oil-skins.”

      A look of determination came into the face of Mr. Jenkins. It was as if he had made up his mind that Harvey should have no opportunity now of backing out.

      “No, you don’t need to,” he said. “The captain’s got all that stuff, and he buys at wholesale, and you can get it cheaper of him. Wait till to-morrow, anyway, and if he can’t fit you, we’ll go ashore.”

      Harvey gave a start of surprise. He hadn’t counted on spending this night aboard the schooner.

      “Do you mean to stay here to-night?” he asked.

      “Why, sure,” responded young Mr. Jenkins. “Good chance to try it on and see how you like it. We’ll just roll up here, and you’ll swear you were never more comfortable in all your life.”

      “Well,” answered Harvey, “I’ll try it. You’re sure the captain will ship us, though?”

      “Oh, you can take what that boy Joe says for gospel,” answered young Mr. Jenkins. “He knows.”

      “Then I’ll step out on deck and bring down that little hand-bag of mine,” said Harvey. “I left it forward by the rail when I came aboard. It’s got a comb and brush and a tooth-brush and a change of underwear in it.”

      Harvey ascended the ladder and walked out on deck. It was a glorious night, the sky studded with thousands of stars. The air was chilly, but Harvey was warmly dressed, and the crisp air was invigorating after his stay in the cabin. He went forward, wondering, in his somewhat confused state of mind, what his chums in Benton would think of it if they could know where he was, and what he contemplated doing.

      “I only wish Henry Burns was going along,” he thought. “Well, I’ll have something to tell him next time I see him.”

      He little thought under what strange circumstances they would next meet.

      Hardly had Harvey left the cabin, when young Mr. Jenkins sprang into the galley, leering at the boy Joe, and digging that stolid youngster facetiously in the ribs.

      “Oh, that’s rich!” he chuckled. “What do you say, Joey – a pretty hair-brush and comb and a tooth-brush aboard an oyster dredger? You’ll have to tell old Haley to get a mirror – a French-plate, gold-leaf mirror – for Mr. Harvey. Oh, he’d do it, all right. He’ll – ah, ha, ha – oh jimminy Christmas! Isn’t that rich?”

      The boy, Joe, turned toward Mr. Jenkins, somewhat angrily.

      “You think you’re smart,” he muttered. “You’ll get come up with, one of these days. What did you get him for? He ain’t the right sort. He’s got folks as will make trouble. I’ll bet the old man won’t stand for him.”

      “Look here, you,” exclaimed Mr. Jenkins, seizing the boy, roughly, “you shut up! Who asked you to tell me what to do? Don’t I know my business? Don’t I know old Scroop, too, as much as you do? Of course he’ll stand for him – when I tell him a few things. You leave that to me, and don’t you go interfering, or I’ll hand you something you’ll feel for a week.”

      The boy shrank back, and relapsed into stolid silence.

      “Where’s that pen and ink?” inquired Jenkins.

      The boy pointed to a locker.

      Taking a faded wallet from his pocket, Mr. Jenkins produced therefrom a paper which he unfolded and spread upon the table. It seemed to be a form, of some sort or other, partly type-written. He got the rusty pen and a small bottle of ink, laid them beside it, and waited for Harvey’s return. Harvey soon reappeared.

      “We’ll just sign this agreement,” remarked Mr. Jenkins carelessly. “Scroop had some aboard here. They don’t mean much, with a good captain like him, for he does better than he’s bound to, anyway. I’ll just run it over, so you can get an idea of it.”

      Talking glibly, Mr. Jenkins ran his finger along the lines, whereby Harvey, by the dim light, got a somewhat hazy idea of them: to the effect that he, Jack Harvey, twenty-one years of age, was bound to serve for one month aboard the fisherman, Z. B. Brandt, whereof the master was Hamilton Haley, on a dredging trip in Chesapeake bay and its tributaries. Together, with divers conditions and provisions which Mr. Jenkins dismissed briefly, as of no account.

      “But I’m not twenty-one years old,” said Harvey. “That’s wrong.”

      “Oh, that don’t amount to anything,” responded Mr. Jenkins. “I knew you weren’t quite that, but it’s near enough. It’s all right. No one ever looks at it. We’ll sign, and it’s all over. Then we’ll turn in, and see the captain in the morning. He’s going to be late, by the looks.”

      “But I thought you said the captain’s name was Scroop,” suggested Harvey, puzzled.

      “So it is,” replied Mr. Jenkins. “This is an old contract, but it’s just as good. Haley used to be captain, and they use the old forms. It don’t matter what the captain’s name is, so long as he’s all right, and he’s got a good boat.”

      Harvey, following the example of his companion, put his name to the paper.

      It might have been different had he had opportunity to take note, on coming aboard, that the schooner, in the cabin of which he now sat, bore no such name on bow and stern as the “Z. B. Brandt.” It might have been different had he seen, in his mind’s eye, the real Z. B. Brandt, pitching and tossing in the waters of Chesapeake Bay, seventy odd miles below where the schooner lay in her snug berth. But he knew naught of that, nor that the schooner in which he was about to take up his quarters for the night was no more like the Z. B. Brandt than a Pullman is like a cattle-car.

      It was with his mind filled with a picture of the voyage soon over and done, and a proud return to Henry Burns and his cronies, that Harvey turned in shortly, on one of the bunks, wrapped himself snugly in a good warm blanket, and went off to sleep. The creaking of rigging, as some craft moved with the current, the noise of some new arrival coming in late to join the fleet at moorings, the tramp of an occasional sailor on the deck of a neighbouring craft, and the swinging of the schooner, did not disturb his sound slumbers. Wearied with the doings of a busy day, he did not move, once his eyes had closed in sleep.

      Some time after eleven o’clock, Mr. Jenkins arose softly and stepped cautiously over to where Harvey lay. There was no mistaking the soundness

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