Arthur Jollyboy, Esquire, of the Old Hulk, sat on the top of a tall three-legged stool in his own snug little office in the sea-port town of Bilton, with his legs swinging to and fro; his socks displayed a considerable way above the tops of his gaiters; his hands thrust deep into his breeches pockets; his spectacles high on his bald forehead, and his eyes looking through the open letter that lay before him; through the desk underneath it; through the plank floor, cellars and foundations of the edifice; and through the entire world into the distant future beyond.
“Four thousand pair of socks,” he murmured, pulling down his spectacles and consulting the open letter for the tenth time: “four thousand pair of socks, with the hitch, same as last bale, but a very little coarser in material.”
“Four thousand pair! and who’s to make them, I wonder. If poor Mrs Dorothy Grumbit were here—ah! well, she’s gone, so it can’t be helped. Four thousand!—dear me who will make them. Do you know?”
This question was addressed to his youngest clerk, who sat on the opposite side of the desk staring at Mr Jollyboy with that open impudence of expression peculiar to young puppy-dogs whose masters are unusually indulgent.
“No, sir, I don’t,” said the clerk with a broad grin.
Before the perplexed merchant could come at any conclusion on this knotty subject the door opened and Martin Rattler entered the room, followed by his friend Barney O’Flannagan.
“You’ve come to the wrong room, friends,” said Mr Jollyboy with a benignant smile. “My principal clerk engages men and pays wages. His office is just opposite; first door in the passage.”
“We don’t want to engage,” said Martin; “we wish to speak with you, sir.”
“Oh, beg pardon!” cried Mr Jollyboy, leaping off the stool with surprising agility for a man of his years. “Come in this way. Pray be seated—Eh! ah, surely I’ve seen you before, my good fellow?”
“Yis, sir, that ye have. I’ve sailed aboard your ships many a time. My name’s Barney O’Flannagan, at yer sarvice.”
“Ah! I recollect; and a good man you are, I’ve been told, Barney; but I have lost sight of you for some years. Been on a long voyage, I suppose?”
“Well, not ’xactly; but I’ve been on a long cruise, an’ no mistake, in the woods o’ Brazil I wos wrecked on the coast there, in the Firefly.”
“Ah, to be sure. I remember. And your young messmate here, was he with you?”
“Yes, sir, I was,” said Martin, answering for himself; “and I had once the pleasure of your acquaintance. Perhaps if you look steadily in my face you may—”
“Ah, then! don’t try to bamboozle him. He might as well look at a bit o’ mahogany as at your faygur-head. Tell him at wance, Martin, dear.”
“Martin?” exclaimed the puzzled old gentleman, seizing the young sailor by the shoulders and gazing intently into his face. “Martin! Martin! Surely not—yes! eh! Martin Rattler?”
“Ay that am I, dear Mr Jollyboy, safe and sound, and—”
Martin’s speech was cut short in consequence of his being violently throttled by Mr Jollyboy, who flung his arms round his neck and staggered recklessly about the office with him! This was the great point which Barney had expected; it was the climax to which he had been looking forward all the morning: and it did not come short of his anticipations; for Mr Jollyboy danced round Martin and embraced him for at least ten minutes, asking him at the same time a shower of questions which he gave him no time to answer. In the excess of his delight Barney smote his thigh with his broad hand so forcibly that it burst upon the startled clerk like a pistol-shot, and caused him to spring off his stool!
“Don’t be afeared, young un,” said Barney, winking and poking the small clerk jocosely in the ribs with his thumb. “Isn’t it beautiful to see them? Arrah, now! isn’t it purty?”
“Keep your thumbs to yourself, you sea monster,” said the small clerk, angrily, and laying his hand on the ruler. But Barney minded him not, and continued to smite his thigh and rub his hands, while he performed a sort of gigantic war-dance round Mr Jollyboy and Martin.
In a few minutes the old gentleman subsided sufficiently to understand questions.
“But, my aunt,” said Martin, anxiously; “you have said nothing about Aunt Dorothy. How is she? where is she? is she well?”
To these questions Mr Jollyboy returned no answer, but sitting suddenly down on a chair, he covered his face with his hands.
“She is not ill?” inquired Martin in a husky voice, while his heart beat violently. “Speak, Mr Jollyboy, is she—is she—”
“No, she’s not ill,” returned the old gentleman; “but she’s—”
“She is dead!” said Martin, in a tone so deep and sorrowful that the old gentleman started up.
“No, no, not dead, my dear boy; I did not mean that. Forgive my stupidity, Martin. Aunt Dorothy is gone,—left the village a year ago; and I have never seen or heard of her since.”
Terrible though this news was, Martin felt a slight degree of relief to know that she was not dead;—at least there was reason to hope that she might be still alive.
“But when did she go? and why? and where?”
“She went about twelve months ago,” replied Mr Jollyboy. “You see, Martin, after she lost you she seemed to lose all hope and all spirit; and at last she gave up making socks for me, and did little but moan in her seat in the window and look out towards the sea. So I got a pleasant young girl to take care of her; and she did not want for any of the comforts of life. One day the little girl came to me here, having run all the way from the village, to say that Mrs Grumbit had packed up a bundle of clothes and gone off to Liverpool by the coach. She took the opportunity of the girl’s absence on some errand to escape; and we should never have known it, had not some boys of the village seen her get into the coach and tell the guard that she was going to make inquiries after Martin. I instantly set out for Liverpool; but long before I arrived the coach had discharged its passengers, and the coachman, not suspecting that anything was wrong, had taken no notice of her after arriving. From that day to this I have not ceased to advertise and make all possible inquiries, but without success.”
Martin heard the narrative in silence, and when it was finished he sat a few minutes gazing vacantly before him, like one in a dream. Then starting up suddenly, he wrung Mr Jollyboy’s hand, “Good-bye, my dear friend; good-bye. I shall go to Liverpool. We shall meet again.”
“Stay, Martin, stay—”
But Martin had rushed from the room, followed by his faithful friend, and in less than half an hour they were in the village of Ashford. The coach was to pass in twenty minutes, so, bidding Barney engage two outside seats, he hastened round by the road towards the cottage. There it stood, quaint time-worn, and old-fashioned, as when he had last seen it—the little garden in which he had so often played, the bower in which, on fine weather, Aunt Dorothy used to sit, and the door-step on which the white kitten used to gambol. But the shutters were closed, and the door was locked, and there was an air of desolation and a deep silence brooding over the place, that sank more poignantly into Martin’s heart than if he had come and found every vestige of the home of his childhood swept away. It was like the body without the soul. The flowers, and stones, and well-known forms were there; but she who had given animation to the whole was gone. Sitting down on the door-step, Martin buried his face in his hands and wept.
He was quickly aroused by the bugle of the approaching coach. Springing up, he dashed the tears away and hurried towards the highroad. In a few minutes Barney and he were seated on the top of the coach, and dashing, at the rate of ten miles an hour, along the road to Liverpool.
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