Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/363



352 ONCE  A

his aunt’s  stables,  and  when  Calomel  spoke  of  a pistol  which  he  possessed,  the  other  declared  that Dobbs should  only  have  seen  the  rabbit* shooting in Yorkshire,  and  moreover  stated  that  there  were hanging up  in  his  father’s  house  in  Liverpool  two guns, four  pistols,  and  a sword,  of  which  he  in- tended to avail  himself  during  the  next  holidays.

“By the  bye,”  said  Calomel,  rather  sneeringly, (and we  all  at  once  remembered  that  the  question hadn’t  been  asked  before,  but  it  was  out  of  all rule,  you  see,  a fellow  coming  in  in  the  dark): “what is  your  father?”

“My father?” said  the  new  chap  very  quietly, “Oh, he’s  a pirate.”

“A what?” shouted  Calomel,  jumping  straight upright in  bed,  and  bo  loud,  that  the  other  had only time  to  repeat  in  the  same  matter-of-fact  way “A pirate,” before  we  heard  old  Mac  come  out  of the  sitting-room,  and  along  the  passage  to  our door. Down went  Dobbs  in  such  a hurry,  that we heard  his  head  go  with  a great  bang  against  the bed’s; so that  he  couldn’t  help  giving  a loud “Oh!” though the  rest  of  us  were  breathing  very hard, to  make  believe  we  were  asleep.

Mac called  out  that  if  he  heard  any  more  noise, he would  do  what  Bhould  keep  us  awake  for  some time, and  then  went  off.

More would  very  likely  have  been  said  then,  so great  was  the  sensation  caused  by  the  new  fellow’s declaration, but  as  we  didn’t  hear  Mac’s  sitting- room door  shut  again,  we  couldn’t  tell  but  that he was  somewhere  listening.

Not that  there  was  anything  of  the  sneak  in Mac; only  he  liked  to  catch  fellows  at  it. Very different to  old  Wiggy,  whose  real  name  was Girard, and  who  was  hated  by  everybody  for coaxing (or  cogling  as  we  used  to  call  it)  till  he got  something  against  the  fellows,  and  then  making their knuckles  black  and  blue  with  a big  door key. There was  no  time  to  say  much  next  morn- ing, for every  one  always  lay  in  bed  as  long  as  he dared  after  the  first  bell  rang,  and  had  only  time  to jump  into  his  clothes,  and  get  down  to  prayers before the  second  bell  stopped. Calomel just asked once  during  dressing,  so  as  to  prevent  any mistake, “What  did  you  say  your  father  was, last night,  you  sir?”  But  the  reply  was  just given in  the  same  cool  way,  “A  pirate.”  Calomel said no  more.

After breakfast,  however,  a lot  of  us  got  together in the  play-ground,  and  talked  the  matter  over. The existence  of  pirates  was  beyond  question: there was  no  reason  to  doubt  that  they  possessed sons like  other  people,  and  perhaps  left  their  busi- nesses to them; but  we  were  not  aware  of  any recorded case  in  which  such  sons  had  been  sent  to a “classical  and  commercial  academy,”  as  Mac’s was called  in  the  prospectus. We couldn’t  help allowing, however,  that  the  new  fellow’s  manner was favourable  and  convincing. We argued,  too, that if  this  gentleman  were  really  a pirate,  it would  account  for  the  possession  not  only  of  the three watches,  which  were  doubtless  acquired  in the  exercise  of  his  profession,  but  also  of  the  guns, pistols, and  sword,  which  would  be  to  him  in  that case the  merest  necessaries  of  existence. In short, most of  us  inclined  to  the  belief,  that  the  new fellow’s story  was  true; though  a few,  headed  by

WEV.IT. [October 29,  1869.

Calomel, urged  that  we  had  only  his  word  for  it, and that  we  knew  nothing  of  him. But then Calomel was  jealous,  and  no  wonder: he  had  been the chief  authority  on  such  points  for  so  long,  that he wasn’t  likely  to  relish  giving  in,  as  he  would have to  do,  of  course,  to  a fellow  with  such  advan- tages of birth.

However, we  agreed  to  ask  Hartley  more  about it, and  by  way  of  beginning,  we  proposed  that  he should  show  us  the  watch  his  aunt  had  given  him. He pulled  it  out  at  once: it  was  an  old  silver  one, very nearly  round,  so  that  it  made  a great  swelling upon his  chest,  as  he  wore  it  in  his  waistcoat pocket. It had  a great  effect  on  the  fellows; it was  just  such  a watch  as  might  have  been  buried in an  iron  chest  for  ever  so  long,  and  though  it didn’t  come  from  his  father,  but  from  his  aunt, that was  nothing;  it  was  in  the  family. It clinched his  story,  and  we  christened  him  “Cross- bones ” on the  spot. As for  the  watch,  that always was  called  “Oliver  Cromwell,”  it  was  so old  and  solid.

You may  be  sure  we  asked  Crossbones  a good many questions  about  his  father,  but  at  first he didn’t  seem  to  think  much  about  the  matter; and it  was  only  after  a week  or  two’s  listening  to the  bedroom  readings  that  he  began  to  let  out  by degrees,  and  gave  us  at  different  times  a good many particulars: how  that  his  father’s  vessel  was a regular clipper,  carried  one  hundred  guns,  had  a crew  of  eighty  men  (many  of  them  blacks),  and was called  the  Blue  Blazer; the  guns  he  thought, when pressed  on  the  point,  were  from  one  hun- dred and eighty  to  two  hundred  pounders. He stated, moreover,  that  the  meals  both  of  officers and crew  were  always  served  on  gold  plates  and dishes, which  were  mere  drugs  on  board  by  rea- son of their  abundance; and  that  the  only  beverage ever touched  was  rum  with  gunpowder  in  it — all which his  father  had  told  him  in  moments  of confidence.

This beat  books  into  fits;  and  even  Calomel felt that  he  must  give  in,  which  he  did,  and became a great  chum  of  Crosabones. Between them they  established  a society,  of  which  every member was  to  swear  solemnly  not  to  let  out anything; which  he  couldn’t  have  done  if  he wished,  as  there  was  nothing  to  let  out. How- ever, we all  tied  up  the  ends  of  our  fingers  with twine in  the  bedroom  one  night,  and  having pricked them  with  a quill  pen,  let  them  bleed into a gill  cup,  over  which  we  then  took  the  oath on a prayer-book. The chief  rule  was,  that  no member  should  speak  to  another  member  about the society’s  affairs,  without  first  putting  his  right forefinger to  the  side  of  his  nose,  and  saying, “Blood?” If all  right,  the  other  member  put  his finger to  his  nose,  and  said,  “Thunder!”  then they both  whistled,  and  then  it  was  all  right. Of course everybody  knew  the  other  members,  but  it was  necessary  to  be  very  particular — societies always are. Crossbones and  Calomel  were  first and second  officers,  and  at  first  everybody  was doing nothing  but  whistling  and  blooding  and thundering; but after  a time  it  got  tiresome, having nothing  more  to  say  when  you  found  you were at  liberty  to  speak. Besides, the  fellows  got into a way  of  laughing  so  that  they  couldn’t