Chapter One.

“Hi-lo!”

The little boy raised his head with a sudden start.

“Hilli—hi—ho! What cheer?”

The little fellow started to his feet from where he had been sitting upon a sloping bank, and caught at the bars of the gate close by. He said nothing, but stared through the gloom of the autumn evening at the strange man, who now roared out:

“What cheer, I says! What cheer?”

The little fellow made an effort to speak, but only sighed at first, before stammering out:

“Please, sir, I don’t know what you mean.”

“You don’t?” growled the man, fiercely, as he clapped the palm of his left hand upon the front of his waistband, and the back of his right hand level with it behind; then kicking out his right leg behind, he made a kind of hop on his left, as if to shake himself down into his clothes, as he hoisted them up.

“You don’t?” he said again, as he stared at the little fellow. “What are you, then? A furrener?”

“No, sir,” said the little boy, shrinking; for the man now took a step forward and clapped a big, brown, tarry hand upon his shoulder.

“Then why can’t yer understand yer own lingo?”

“I do, sir,” said the boy, with a sound like a sob.

“Then why did you say you didn’t, and make me think you was a Frenchy?”

“I didn’t know what you meant, sir, by ‘hilli’ something, and ‘what cheer.’”

“Why, yer young savage!” cried the man. “Arn’t yer never been to school?”

“Yes, sir, and had a tutor.”

“A tutor, eh? What may that be? But lookye here, my lad; I arn’t a sir—on’y a marrineer.”

“A what, sir?” said the boy, staring.

“Marrineer—seaman. Fore the mast man, ship now lying off the port o’ Torquay. Whatcher doing there?”

“Cry-ying, sir,” came for answer, with a piteous sob.

“Cry-hying, you young swab?” roared the man, as if he were speaking through a storm. “Here, sop that up. Father been leathering yer?”

“No, sir.”

“No, Jack Jeens!” yelled the man. “Sir, indeed! Jack Jeens—that’s my name. England is my dwellin’ place—leastwise, when I arn’t off France and Spain, or in the ’Terranium leathering the French. Now, then, who has been givin’ it to you? Mother, p’r’aps, and turned you out of doors?”

“No, sir,” sobbed the boy, with a piteous look, in the gathering darkness.

“Yah!” came so savagely that the boy started to run; but the grip upon his shoulder tightened, and he was forced back against the bars of the gate. “Now, just you look here, messmet. You’re such a little un that I don’t like to hit yer for fear you should break; but don’t you haggravate me by talking as if I was a hofficer.”

“No, sir; please, sir—” stammered the boy.

“Hark at him!” growled the man, speaking to one of the stone gate-posts; and then, turning to the other, “Is he a hidgit?”

“No, that I’m not!” cried the boy, speaking indignantly now. “I wanted to say that I had no father and no mother.”

“Then why didn’t you say so at first?” growled the man. “But got no father nor mother?”

“No, s— no, no!” cried the boy.

“You’re a horphan, mate?”

“Yes—Jack Jeens, didn’t you say you were?”

“Right, boy; and that shows me straight and plain that you ain’t a hidgit. Shake hands, mate. I’m just the same as you. I’m a horphan, too, on’y I don’t pipe my eye like you do.”

The boy held out his hand, which the next moment lay, looking dimly white, in the great, hairy paw which seized it.

“Leave crying to the women, my lad. Now then, what’s the matter?”

The tears started to the boy’s eyes again and he uttered a kind of gasp as he strove to master the desire to sob aloud, and said in a broken voice:

“I’m tired and cold and hungry.”

“Eh? Then why don’t you go home?”

“I have no home now,” said the little fellow, sadly.

“That’s queer agen,” said the sailor, in quite a sympathetic tone now. “You’re a horphan like me, and now you’ve got no home. What, nowhere to go and sleep to-night?”

“No—” said the boy, and the word “sir” nearly slipped out again.

“Why, you’re quite a ship in distress, messmet, and it seems lucky you’ve failed in with me. Hungry and out o’ water, are yer?”

“Very hungry, please,” said the boy; “but I found some water over there, running by the roadside, before it was dark, and I drank some.”

“Ah, that’s why it came out o’ them eyes o’ yourn like a shipped wave out o’ the scuppers. Well, I got a shot or two yet in the locker, so come along o’ me and I’ll get yer something to eat, anyhow. Here, hook on to my fin.”

The man’s tone was so friendly, and he held out his hand in such a kindly way, that the little fellow caught at it eagerly, and with the darkness thickening fast, began to trot beside his new friend as he strode off, but only to totter breathlessly at the end of a few minutes and then stumble, ready to fall but for the strong arm which dragged him up.

“Why, hillo!” cried the man. “What’s this here?”

“I—I don’t know,” said the boy, feebly. “I’m so tired—and my feet hurt—and—and—and I can’t go any farther, please. Don’t be cross with me, sir; I can’t help it—I’m obliged to cry.”

His legs sank beneath him as he spoke and doubled so that he naturally came down upon his knees, and raising the hand that was not held, to join the other, the boy seemed in the gloom to be praying for mercy to the big, rough man.

“Why, matey, I didn’t know you were on your beam ends like this here,” he growled, softly. “Here, I’ll help yer. Let me lift yer on to this ’ere bank. That’s the way. Steady, now, while I turn round. Give’s t’other fin. There you are. Heave ho! and you’re up and on my back. Now, then, I’ll tow you into port where I’m going, and you an’ me’ll have a bit o’ supper together, and after that—well, look at that now!”

As he spoke the sailor had got the boy up on his shoulders, pig-a-back fashion, and began to tramp steadily along the road, not feeling the light weight, and talking pleasantly to the little fellow all the while, till, in his surprise, he uttered the last words in a low tone, and followed them up by exclaiming:

“Tired out, poor bairn. I’m blessed if he ain’t fast asleep!”

The sailor stood in the middle of the road thinking and talking aloud to himself as if he were someone else.

“This here’s a pretty set-out, Jack Jeens,” he growled softly, so as not to awaken his load. “Here you are, my lad, just finished your holiday, spent half your arnings along with your friends, and give t’other half to yer old mother to help her along till you come back from sea again—bless her old heart! On’y I wish when she kisses yer and says, ‘good-bye, and bless you, my dear boy!’ she wouldn’t cry quite all over yer. But as I was a-saying, Jack, here you’re going back quite comfy to join the Sairy Ann schooner, lad, with nothing to do but join your ship, when down upon you comes this here boy, tired and hungry, and crying as bad as your old mother, my lad. You didn’t want a boy, Jack, and now you’ve got him you don’t know what to do with him, nor who he is, nor where he’s going, nor where he comes from. Strikes me he don’t know himself. Take him aboard the Sairy Ann, my lad, and show him to the skipper. ‘Now, then,’ says you, ‘here’s a boy.’ ‘So I see,’ says the skipper. ‘Well, what’s to be done with him?’ says you, and he turns it over in his mind, and ’fore you know where you are he’s settled it all and told you what to do and where to put him.

“That’s the way to do it,” said Jack Jeens, with a low, soft chuckle. “Poor little bairn! The skipper has got a wife and little uns of his own, and understands these sort o’ things. Shouldn’t wonder if he finds a new father and mother for him.”

Jack’s messmates said nothing, for they never knew, though the rough sailor began to carry out his plan, going onward with the boy fast asleep upon his back, too much wearied out to heed where he was going or to think of the troubles which had befallen one so young. For his sleep grew deeper and deeper till the lights of Torquay came into sight round about the port at the bottom of the hill; and he did not stir when Jack, stopping short at the door of a shabby-looking little inn upon the Strand—a place much frequented by seamen—and the boy did not heed Jack Jeen’s voice when he cried, “What cheer?” to the landlady, and asked for a room and bed for the night with supper to be ready directly.

The simple supper was soon placed upon the table of the mean-looking room; but the boy could not eat.

“Tired out?” said the landlady, sourly.

“Ay, ay; that’s it,” said Jack. “Here, missus, I’ll carry him up and put him to bed.”

And this the rough fellow did, carrying his young companion as carefully as if he were afraid that he would break, and then without attempting to undress him, he laid him down, covered him up, and then went back to have his supper. After which, weary enough himself, and thinking about his work in the early morning, he looked out to where his schooner lay moored to a buoy with a light swinging high in the rigging, and then went up to his room.

The boy was faster than ever, and as Jack Jeens held a guttering tallow candle over the sleeper’s face, “Poor little chap,” he said, smiling. “Why, if I get tumbling into bed it’ll wake him up, and I won’t do that. Here, this’ll do.”

Jack took the candle out of the stick and put it out very untidily by turning it upside down till the flame was choked, and then threw himself down upon the floor by the bedside.

“Quite as soft—bit softer perhaps—than the schooner’s deck,” he muttered. “Good-night, little un. The skipper’ll make it all right for you in the morning, and—Heigh-ho-ha-hum! My word, I am jolly sleepy, and—”

Jack Jeens said no more, but the next instant he gave vent to a snore that ought to have awakened the boy but did not; and he lay sleeping hard till there was something louder than his own snore upon the stairs.

First there was the whispering of voices below; then a rough laugh; then the shuffling and stamping of feet, which ceased upon the landing outside the door, which was roughly tried, and being fastened, kicked in, while a fierce voice cried aloud in tones which made Jack Jeens spring to his feet under the belief that he was at home aboard the schooner and in his bunk.

“Ahoy there! Tumble up! Tumble up! In the King’s name!”

Chapter Two.

Jack Jeens and his young companion started up, sitting upon the floor, and both confused and wondering.

“Hillo!” ejaculated Jack.

“What’s that?” said the boy, who could not tell where he was, while at that moment the window was pushed up a little and the voice of a man said softly:

“There’s a ladder here. Quick, run for it! The pressgang!”

“Eh, what? Where?” growled the sailor, excitedly. “Bring a light? Where’s the light?”

He knew the next moment, for the door was burst open with a crash and a party of men headed by an officer in uniform rushed into the room, filling it with light, for three of them bore ship’s lanthorns, and Jack found that the warning had come too late, for he was seized by three men before he could even think of resisting, and held tightly with his back to the wall. “Only one, my lads?” cried the officer.

“Not sure yet, sir,” replied one of the men, who ducked down to bring the light of the lanthorn he carried beneath the bed, while another of the party examined the cupboard, and a companion peeped up the chimney.

“No, sir; only one, sir,” said a man who seemed to be a warrant officer; “but here’s a nipper on the bed.”

“I thought there had been more,” said the leader. “Now, then, my lad,” he continued, to the sailor, “it’s of no use to kick against it. How many mates had you with you?”

“Ne’er a one,” growled Jack, surlily. “What do you want with me?”

“Oh, you’ll see soon enough. Come along. Mind you don’t lose him, my lads.”

“Never fear, sir,” came in chorus, while the boy upon seeing that his new friend was in trouble slipped off the bed, ran to Jack’s side, and grasped his hand tightly.

“You can’t press me,” cried Jack, now growing angry, and, as if obeying an instinct which made him feel it to be his duty to protect the boy, drawing him close to his side.

“Can’t we, my lad?” said the officer, laughing. “Why, we have pressed you.”

“But I belong to a schooner in the bay,” cried Jack.

“You belong to the King now, my lad.”

Jack Jeens glanced wildly at the speaker and then at the open window, where a face was seen dimly for a moment or two by the light shed by the lanthorns; and the next moment he would have flung off the men who held his arms to right and left, and rushing to the opening, have sprung out. But somehow at that moment the tight grasp of his young companion had the effect of making him feel that he could not leave the little fellow who had so strongly appealed to his better feelings, and he stood fast.

The next moment the chance was gone, for one of the gang ran to the window, shut it down with a bang, and fastened it securely.

“There, bring them along, my lads,” said the leader, and just then the man who seemed to be a warrant officer whispered something.

“Eh? What? No, he’s too little.”

“Powder monkey, sir; and he’ll grow.”

“To be sure. Of course,” cried the officer; “and it’s two instead of one. Bring him along.”

“Here, what yer going to do?” cried Jack, excitedly. “You mustn’t touch this boy; he’s—”

“That’ll do!” roared the officer, and at a sign from him a couple of the gang made a dash at the little fellow to separate them; but at the first touch the boy uttered a wild cry and clung tightly to his protector, who made a desperate effort to defend him, shouting the while for the landlady to come and take the little fellow.

But it was all in vain: Jack and his young companion were torn apart, hurried down the stairs and out on to the Strand, and a few minutes later the boy was set at liberty, to spring to Jack’s side, panting with excitement as he clung to him tightly; but it was with the water rippling and pattering against the bows of the boat which was being rowed rapidly out of the harbour towards the bay. Not long after, as the coxswain’s boat-hook caught a ring, the boat glided against the towering side of a great line of battleship, and the two prisoners were hurried up on deck, and Jack Jeens in spite of all protestations was made one of the crew of HMS Victory, and his little companion, the youngest boy on board, without a chance of setting foot ashore again.

For at sunrise the sails were shaken out, and the great man-of-war with its tiers of guns was soon after leading the way down Channel in search of England’s enemies, followed by the British Fleet, while the news that the fleet was commanded by Admiral Nelson seemed to Jack Jeens and the little fellow with whom he had become so strangely associated only so many empty words.

Chapter Three.

Jack Jeens sat upon the bottom of an upturned bucket with his elbows resting upon his knees, gazing down at his young companion of the previous night’s adventure, who was half sitting, half lying, upon the lower deck of the great ship, close to the open port-hole, through which the morning light shone upon his face as he went on eating a biscuit, through the edge of which his keen pearly-white teeth passed like those of a mouse.

It was light enough close to the boy, but all inward was very gloomy, and every here and there a lanthorn was burning dimly, although it was morning.

There was plenty of noise and bustle going on about the deck where the lanthorns burned, and the trampling of feet, and shouts that sounded like orders came now and then; but the principal sound just there by the port-hole through which the light came was the crunch, crunch, crunch of the biscuit.

At last Jack Jeens spoke.

“It caps me,” he said. “Seems wonderful. Here you are, just aboard ship for the first time, and ’stead o’ being badly and sick, eating away like a reg’lar biscuit nibbler.”

“I was so hungry,” said the little fellow, with a bright smile.

“Eat away, then,” said Jack; “but I say, arn’t you frightened?”

“Not now,” said the boy. “I was when those sailors came and woke me up.”

“Course you would be,” said Jack. “Why, it scared me. But arn’t you frightened now?”

The boy shook his head and took another bite at the hard biscuit.

“Why arn’t you frightened?” said Jack, after a good long stare at the biscuit-nibbler, as he called his companion.

“Because you’re here,” said the boy.

“Yes, I’m here, o’ course,” said Jack, staring hard as if puzzled. “I’m a-sitting close to yer; but that don’t make no difference because I’m a pressed man.”

“You’ll take care of me and see that no one hurts me,” said the boy, confidently.

“Oh, o’ course,” said Jack, scratching his head. “That is, while I’m here, but what’s going to become of you when I’m gone?”

“Gone?” said the boy, sharply, as he left off eating. “You’re not going away to leave me, are you?”

“Well, no,” said Jack, grimly. “It’s you who are going away to leave me.”

“That I sha’n’t,” cried the boy, quickly. “I’ll never go away from you. I like you.”

“That’s right,” said Jack Jeens, grinning with satisfaction; “and of course I like you too, youngster. But they’ll be setting you ashore soon, so that you can go back to your folk.”

The boy shook his head.

“What do you mean by that?” said the sailor, sharply. “Lookye here, you never told me what your name was, nor where you come from.”

The little fellow frowned and looked pained.

“Got a name, haven’t you?” said the sailor.

“Yes, of course,” cried the boy. “Phil.”

“Phil, eh?” said the sailor. “Phil what?”

“Leigh,” was the reply.

“Phil Leigh, eh? Hard a-lee. Well, where do you live?”

“At Greyton,” said the boy, slowly and sadly. “No, I used to live there, till—till—till—”

“Yes, I know,” said Jack, quickly, as he grasped the meaning of the boy’s working face. “But why don’t you live there now?”

“Because uncle came,” said the boy, with a shudder, “and then I—I—You won’t take me back, will you?”

“Dunno yet,” said Jack, sternly. “Boys arn’t got no business to run away from home. Watcher run away for?”

“He used to beat me so.”

“Beat you—a little un like you?” cried Jack, with a look of disgust. “What with?”

“Walking stick.”

“Thick un?” said Jack, and the boy nodded. “And didn’t nobody stop him?”

“Yes,” said the little fellow quickly. “Aunt did.”

“Who’s aunt?” said Jack, sharply.

“Why, my aunt. She said it was a shame.”

“Ha! I like her,” said Jack, and he rubbed his hands. “But what did he beat you for?”

“He said I was always crying,” said the boy, piteously. “But I couldn’t help it.”

“Course you couldn’t,” said Jack, softly. “You cried a-cause o’ them being took away, didn’t you?”

The boy nodded sharply—he did not dare to speak.

“Ha!” sighed Jack Jeens, as he rubbed his hands softly together. “I wish I’d been there. But I say, look here. And so you run away because he whipped you?”

The boy nodded.

“And went on walking till I run again’ you?”

“Yes,” came like a sigh.

“Well, you see, you’ll have to go back.”

The little fellow dropped the piece of biscuit he held, and it fell with a rap upon the deck, as he started to his feet, glanced out of the open port-hole, and took a quick step or two towards it, darted off into the darkness of the ’tween decks, the sailor catching a glimpse of him as he passed the light shed by the lanthorns.