'Who was that?' asked Alick.
'The new second engineer on board the So-and-so,' was the reply.
'Well, and who is he?'
'Brown, to be sure.'
For Brown had been one of the fortunate quartette aboard the
Circassia. If that was the way of it in the States, Alick thought
it was high time to follow Brown's example. He spent his last day,
as he put it, 'reviewing the yeomanry,' and the next morning says
he to his landlady, 'Mrs. X., I'll not take porridge to-day,
please; I'll take some eggs.'
'Why, have you found a job?' she asked, delighted.
'Well, yes,' returned the perfidious Alick; 'I think I'll start to-
day.'
And so, well lined with eggs, start he did, but for America. I am
afraid that landlady has seen the last of him.
It was easy enough to get on board in the confusion that attends a
vessel's departure; and in one of the dark corners of Steerage No.
1, flat in a bunk and with an empty stomach, Alick made the voyage
from the Broomielaw to Greenock. That night, the ship's yeoman
pulled him out by the heels and had him before the mate. Two other
stowaways had already been found and sent ashore; but by this time
darkness had fallen, they were out in the middle of the estuary,
and the last steamer had left them till the morning.
'Take him to the forecastle and give him a meal,' said the mate,
'and see and pack him off the first thing to-morrow.'
In the forecastle he had supper, a good night's rest, and
breakfast; and was sitting placidly with a pipe, fancying all was
over and the game up for good with that ship, when one of the
sailors grumbled out an oath at him, with a 'What are you doing
there?' and 'Do you call that hiding, anyway?' There was need of
no more; Alick was in another bunk before the day was older.
Shortly before the passengers arrived, the ship was cursorily
inspected. He heard the round come down the companion and look
into one pen after another, until they came within two of the one
in which he lay concealed. Into these last two they did not enter,
but merely glanced from without; and Alick had no doubt that he was
personally favoured in this escape. It was the character of the
man to attribute nothing to luck and but little to kindness;
whatever happened to him he had earned in his own right amply;
favours came to him from his singular attraction and adroitness,
and misfortunes he had always accepted with his eyes open. Half an
hour after the searchers had departed, the steerage began to fill
with legitimate passengers, and the worst of Alick's troubles was
at an end. He was soon making himself popular, smoking other
people's tobacco, and politely sharing their private stock
delicacies, and when night came he retired to his bunk beside the
others with composure.
Next day by afternoon, Lough Foyle being already far behind, and
only the rough north-western hills of Ireland within view, Alick
appeared on deck to court inquiry and decide his fate. As a matter
of fact, he was known to several on board, and even intimate with
one of the engineers; but it was plainly not the etiquette of such
occasions for the authorities to avow their information. Every one
professed surprise and anger on his appearance, and he was led
prison before the captain.
'What have you got to say for yourself?' inquired the captain.
'Not much,' said Alick; 'but when a man has been a long time out of
a job, he will do things he would not under other circumstances.'
'Are you willing to work?'
Alick swore he was burning to be useful.
'And what can you do?' asked the captain.
He replied composedly that he was a brass-fitter by trade.
'I think you will be better at engineering?' suggested the officer,
with a shrewd look.
'No, sir,' says Alick simply. - 'There's few can beat me at a lie,'
was his engaging commentary to me as he recounted the affair.
'Have you been to sea?' again asked the captain.
'I've had a trip on a Clyde steamboat, sir, but no more,' replied
the unabashed Alick.
'Well, we must try and find some work for you,' concluded the
officer.
And hence we behold Alick, clear of the hot engine-room, lazily
scraping paint and now and then taking a pull upon a sheet. 'You
leave me alone,' was his deduction. 'When I get talking to a man,
I can get round him.'
The other stowaway, whom I will call the Devonian - it was
noticeable that neither of them told his name - had both been
brought up and seen the world in a much smaller way. His father, a
confectioner, died and was closely followed by his mother. His
sisters had taken, I think, to dressmaking. He himself had
returned from sea about a year ago and gone to live with his
brother, who kept the 'George Hotel' - 'it was not quite a real
hotel,' added the candid fellow - 'and had a hired man to mind the
horses.' At first the Devonian was very welcome; but as time went
on his brother not unnaturally grew cool towards him, and he began
to find himself one too many at the 'George Hotel.' 'I don't think
brothers care much for you,' he said, as a general reflection upon
life. Hurt at this change, nearly penniless, and too proud to ask
for more, he set off on foot and walked eighty miles to Weymouth,
living on the journey as he could.
