The ghost ship, p.1
The Ghost Ship, page 1
Produced by Tom Harris
THE GHOST-SHIP
by Richard Middleton
Thanks are due to the Editors of _The Century_, _English Review_, _Vanity Fair_, and _The Academy_, for permission to reproduce most of the stories in this volume.
Preface
The other day I said to a friend, "I have just been reading in proofa volume of short stories by an author named Richard Middleton. He isdead. It is an extraordinary book, and all the work in it is full ofa quite curious and distinctive quality. In my opinion it is veryfine work indeed."
It would be so simple if the business of the introducer orpreface-writer were limited to such a straightforward, honest, anddirect expression of opinion; unfortunately that is not so. For mostof us, the happier ones of the world, it is enough to say "I likeit," or "I don't like it," and there is an end: the critic has toanswer the everlasting "Why?" And so, I suppose, it is my office,in this present instance, to say why I like the collection of talesthat follows.
I think that I have found a hint as to the right answer in two ofthese stories. One is called "The Story of a Book," the other "TheBiography of a Superman." Each is rather an essay than a tale, thoughthe form of each is narrative. The first relates the sad bewildermentof a successful novelist who feels that, after all, his great workwas something less than nothing.
He could not help noticing that London had discovered the secret which made his intellectual life a torment. The streets were more than a mere assemblage of houses, London herself was more than a tangled skein of streets, and overhead heaven was more than a meeting-place of individual stars. What was this secret that made words into a book, houses into cities, and restless and measurable stars into an unchanging and immeasurable universe?
Then from "The Biography of a Superman" I select this very strikingpassage:--
Possessed of an intellect of great analytic and destructive force, he was almost entirely lacking in imagination, and he was therefore unable to raise his work to a plane in which the mutually combative elements of his nature might have been reconciled. His light moments of envy, anger, and vanity passed into the crucible to come forth unchanged. He lacked the magic wand, and his work never took wings above his conception.
Now compare the two places; "the streets were more than a mereassemblage of houses;" . . . "his light moments . . . passed into thecrucible to come forth unchanged. He lacked the magic wand." I thinkthese two passages indicate the answer to the "why" that I am forcedto resolve; show something of the secret of the strange charm which"The Ghost-Ship" possesses.
It delights because it is significant, because it is no mereassemblage of words and facts and observations and incidents, itdelights because its matter has not passed through the crucibleunchanged. On the contrary, the jumble of experiences and impressionswhich fell to the lot of the author as to us all had assuredly beenplaced in the athanor of art, in that furnace of the sages which issaid to be governed with wisdom. Lead entered the burning of thefire, gold came forth from it.
This analogy of the process of alchemy which Richard Middleton hashimself suggested is one of the finest and the fittest for ourpurpose; but there are many others. The "magic wand" analogy comes tomuch the same thing; there is the like notion of something ugly andinsignificant changed to something beautiful and significant.Something ugly; shall we not say rather something formless transmutedinto form! After all, the Latin Dictionary declares solemnly that"beauty" is one of the meanings of "forma" And here we are away fromalchemy and the magic wand ideas, and pass to the thought of thefirst place that I have quoted: "the streets were more than a mereassemblage of houses," The puzzle is solved; the jig-saw--I thinkthey call it--has been successfully fitted together, There in a boxlay all the jagged, irregular pieces, each in itself crazy andmeaningless and irritating by its very lack of meaning: now we seeeach part adapted to the other and the whole is one picture and onepurpose.
But the first thing necessary to this achievement is the recognitionof the fact that there is a puzzle. There are many people who gothrough life persuaded that there isn't a puzzle at all; that it wasonly the infancy and rude childhood of the world which dreamed a vaindream of a picture to be made out of the jagged bits of wood, Therenever has been a picture, these persons say, and there never will bea picture, all we have to do is to take the bits out of the box, lookat them, and put them back again. Or, returning to RichardMiddleton's excellent example: there is no such thing as London,there are only houses. No man has seen London at any time; the veryword (meaning "the fort on the lake") is nonsensical; no human eyehas ever beheld aught else but a number of houses; it is clear thatthis "London" is as mythical and monstrous and irrational a conceptas many others of the same class. Well, people who talk like that aredoubtless sent into the world for some useful but mysterious process;but they can't write real books. Richard Middleton knew that therewas a puzzle; in other words, that the universe is a great mystery;and this consciousness of his is the source of the charm of "TheGhost Ship."
I have compared this orthodox view of life and theuniverse and the fine art that results from this view to the solvingof a puzzle; but the analogy is not an absolutely perfect one. For ifyou buy a jig-saw in a box in the Haymarket, you take it home withyou and begin to put the pieces together, and sooner or later thetoil is over and the difficulties are overcome: the picture is clearbefore you. Yes, the toil is over, but so is the fun; it is but poorsport to do the trick all over again. And here is the vastinferiority of the things they sell in the shops to the universe: ourgreat puzzle is never perfectly solved. We come across marvelloushints, we join line to line and our hearts beat with the rapture of agreat surmise; we follow a certain track and know by sure signs andsignals that we are not mistaken, that we are on the right road; weare furnished with certain charts which tell us "here there bewater-pools," "here is a waste place," "here a high hill riseth," andwe find as we journey that so it is. But, happily, by the very natureof the case, we can never put the whole of the picture together, wecan never recover the perfect utterance of the Lost Word, we cannever say "here is the end of all the journey." Man is so made thatall his true delight arises from the contemplation of mystery, andsave by his own frantic and invincible folly, mystery is never takenfrom him; it rises within his soul, a well of joy unending.
Hence it is that the consciousness of this mystery, resolved into theform of art, expresses itself usually (or always) by symbols, by thepart put for the whole. Now and then, as in the case of Dante, as itwas with the great romance-cycle of the Holy Graal, we have a senseof completeness. With the vision of the Angelic Rose and the sentenceconcerning that Love which moves the sun and the other stars there isthe shadow of a catholic survey of all things; and so in a lessdegree it is as we read of the translation of Galahad. Still, theRose and the Graal are but symbols of the eternal verities, not thoseverities themselves in their essences; and in these later days whenwe have become clever--with the cleverness of the Performing Pig--itis a great thing to find the most obscure and broken indications ofthe things which really are. There is the true enchantment of trueromance in the Don Quixote--for those who can understand--but it isdelivered in the mode of parody and burlesque; and so it is with theextraordinary fantasy, "The Ghost-Ship," which gives its name to thiscollection of tales. Take this story to bits, as it were; analyse it;you will be astonished at its frantic absurdity: the ghostly galleonblown in by a great tempest to a turnip-patch in Fairfield, a littlevillage lying near the Portsmouth Road about half-way between Londonand the sea; the farmer grumbling at the loss of so many turnips; thecaptain of the weird vessel acknowledging the justice of the claimand tossing a great gold brooch to the landlord by way of satisfyingthe debt; the deplorable fact that all the decent village ghostslearned to riot with Captain Bartholomew Roberts; the visit of theparson and his godly admonitions to the Captain on the evil work hewas doing; mere craziness, you will say?
Yes; but the strange thing is that as, in spite of all jocose tricksand low-comedy misadventures, Don Quixote departs from us with agreat light shining upon him; so this ghost-ship of RichardMiddleton's, somehow or other, sails and anchors and re-sails in anunearthly glow; and Captain Bartholomew's rum that was like hot oiland honey and fire in the veins of the mortals who drank of it, hasbecome for me one of the _nobilium poculorum_ of story. And thus didthe ship put forth from the village and sail away in a great tempestof wind--to what unimaginable seas of the spirit!
The wind that had been howling outside like an outrageous dog had all of a sudden turned as melodious as the carol-boys of a Christmas Eve.
We went to the door, and the wind burst it open so that the handle was driven clean into the plaster of the wall. But we didn't think much of that at the time; for over our heads, sailing very comfortably through the windy stars, was the ship that had passed the summer in landlord's field. Her portholes and her bay-window were blazing with lights, and there was a noise of singing and fiddling on her decks. "He's gone," shouted landlord above the storm, "and he's taken half the village with him!" I could only nod in answer, not having lungs like bellows of leather.
I declare I would not exchange this short, crazy, enchanting fantasyfor a whole wilderness of seemly novels, proclaiming in decorousaccents the undoubted truth that there are milestones on thePortsmouth Road.
Arthur Machen.
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The Ghost-Ship
Fairfield is a little village lying near the Portsmouth Road abouthalf-way between London and the sea. Strangers who find it byaccident now and then, call it a pretty, old-fashioned place; we wholive in it and call it home don't find anything very pretty about it,but we should be sorry to live anywhere else. Our minds have takenthe shape of the inn and the church and the green, I suppose. At allevents we never feel comfortable out of Fairfield.
Of course the Cockneys, with their vasty houses and noise-riddenstreets, can call us rustics if they choose, but for all thatFairfield is a better place to live in than London. Doctor says thatwhen he goes to London his mind is bruised with the weight of thehouses, and he was a Cockney born. He had to live there himself whenhe was a little chap, but he knows better now. You gentlemen maylaugh--perhaps some of you come from London way--but it seems to methat a witness like that is worth a gallon of arguments.
Dull? Well, you might find it dull, but I assure you that I'velistened to all the London yarns you have spun tonight, and they'reabsolutely nothing to the things that happen at Fairfield. It'sbecause of our way of thinking and minding our own business. If oneof your Londoners were set down on the green of a Saturday night whenthe ghosts of the lads who died in the war keep tryst with the lasseswho lie in the church-yard, he couldn't help being curious andinterfering, and then the ghosts would go somewhere where it wasquieter. But we just let them come and go and don't make any fuss,and in consequence Fairfield is the ghostiest place in all England.Why, I've seen a headless man sitting on the edge of the well inbroad daylight, and the children playing about his feet as if he weretheir father. Take my word for it, spirits know when they are welloff as much as human beings.
Still, I must admit that the thing I'm going to tell you about wasqueer even for our part of the world, where three packs ofghost-hounds hunt regularly during the season, and blacksmith'sgreat-grandfather is busy all night shoeing the dead gentlemen'shorses. Now that's a thing that wouldn't happen in London, because oftheir interfering ways, but blacksmith he lies up aloft and sleeps asquiet as a lamb. Once when he had a bad head he shouted down to themnot to make so much noise, and in the morning he found an old guinealeft on the anvil as an apology. He wears it on his watch-chain now.But I must get on with my story; if I start telling you about thequeer happenings at Fairfield I'll never stop.
It all came of the great storm in the spring of '97, the year that wehad two great storms. This was the first one, and I remember it verywell, because I found in the morning that it had lifted the thatch ofmy pigsty into the widow's garden as clean as a boy's kite. When Ilooked over the hedge, widow--Tom Lamport's widow that was--wasprodding for her nasturtiums with a daisy-grubber. After I hadwatched her for a little I went down to the "Fox and Grapes" to telllandlord what she had said to me. Landlord he laughed, being amarried man and at ease with the sex. "Come to that," he said, "thetempest has blowed something into my field. A kind of a ship Ithink it would be."
I was surprised at that until he explained that it was only aghost-ship and would do no hurt to the turnips. We argued thatit had been blown up from the sea at Portsmouth, and then wetalked of something else. There were two slates down at theparsonage and a big tree in Lumley's meadow. It was a rarestorm.
I reckon the wind had blown our ghosts all over England.They were coming back for days afterwards with foundered horsesand as footsore as possible, and they were so glad to get backto Fairfield that some of them walked up the street crying likelittle children. Squire said that his great-grandfather'sgreat-grandfather hadn't looked so dead-beat since the battleof Naseby, and he's an educated man.
What with one thing and another, I should think it was a week beforewe got straight again, and then one afternoon I met the landlord onthe green and he had a worried face. "I wish you'd come and have alook at that ship in my field," he said to me; "it seems to me it'sleaning real hard on the turnips. I can't bear thinking what themissus will say when she sees it."
I walked down the lane with him, and sure enough there was aship in the middle of his field, but such a ship as no man hadseen on the water for three hundred years, let alone in themiddle of a turnip-field. It was all painted black and coveredwith carvings, and there was a great bay window in the sternfor all the world like the Squire's drawing-room. There was acrowd of little black cannon on deck and looking out of herport-holes, and she was anchored at each end to the hardground. I have seen the wonders of the world on picture-postcards,but I have never seen anything to equal that.
"She seems very solid for a ghost-ship," I said, seeing the landlordwas bothered.
"I should say it's a betwixt and between," he answered, puzzling itover, "but it's going to spoil a matter of fifty turnips, and missusshe'll want it moved." We went up to her and touched the side, and itwas as hard as a real ship. "Now there's folks in England would callthat very curious," he said.
Now I don't know much about ships, but I should think that thatghost-ship weighed a solid two hundred tons, and it seemed to methat she had come to stay, so that I felt sorry for landlord, who wasa married man. "All the horses in Fairfield won't move her out of myturnips," he said, frowning at her.
Just then we heard a noise on her deck, and we looked up and saw thata man had come out of her front cabin and was looking down at us verypeaceably. He was dressed in a black uniform set out with rusty goldlace, and he had a great cutlass by his side in a brass sheath. "I'mCaptain Bartholomew Roberts," he said, in a gentleman's voice, "putin for recruits. I seem to have brought her rather far up theharbour."
"Harbour!" cried landlord; "why, you're fifty miles from the sea."
Captain Roberts didn't turn a hair. "So much as that, is it?" he saidcoolly. "Well, it's of no consequence."
Landlord was a bit upset at this. "I don't want to be unneighbourly,"he said, "but I wish you hadn't brought your ship into my field. Yousee, my wife sets great store on these turnips."
The captain took a pinch of snuff out of a fine gold box that hepulled out of his pocket, and dusted his fingers with a silkhandkerchief in a very genteel fashion. "I'm only here for a fewmonths," he said; "but if a testimony of my esteem would pacify yourgood lady I should be content," and with the words he loosed a greatgold brooch from the neck of his coat and tossed it down to landlord.
Landlord blushed as red as a strawberry. "I'm not denying she's fondof jewellery," he said, "but it's too much for half a sackful ofturnips." And indeed it was a handsome brooch.
The captain laughed. "Tut, man," he said, "it's a forced sale, andyou deserve a good price. Say no more about it;" and nodding good-dayto us, he turned on his heel and went into the cabin. Landlord walkedback up the lane like a man with a weight off his mind. "That tempesthas blowed me a bit of luck," he said; "the missus will be muchpleased with that brooch. It's better than blacksmith's guinea, anyday."
Ninety-seven was Jubilee year, the year of the second Jubilee, youremember, and we had great doings at Fairfield, so that we hadn'tmuch time to bother about the ghost-ship though anyhow it isn't ourway to meddle in things that don't concern us. Landlord, he saw histenant once or twice when he was hoeing his turnips and passed thetime of day, and landlord's wife wore her new brooch to church everySunday. But we didn't mix much with the ghosts at any time, allexcept an idiot lad there was in the village, and he didn't know thedifference between a man and a ghost, poor innocent! On Jubilee Day,however, somebody told Captain Roberts why the church bells wereringing, and he hoisted a flag and fired off his guns like a loyalEnglishman. 'Tis true the guns were shotted, and one of the roundshot knocked a hole in Farmer Johnstone's barn, but nobody thoughtmuch of that in such a season of rejoicing.
It wasn't till our celebrations were over that we noticed thatanything was wrong in Fairfield. 'Twas shoemaker who told me firstabout it one morning at the "Fox and Grapes." "You know my greatgreat-uncle?" he said to me.
"You mean Joshua, the quiet lad," I answered, knowing him well.
"Quiet!" said shoemaker indignantly. "Quiet you call him, coming homeat three o'clock every morning as drunk as a magistrate and waking upthe whole house with his noise."
"Why, it can't be Joshua!" I said, for I knew him for one of the mostrespectable young ghosts in the village.
"Joshua it is," said shoemaker; "and one of these nights he'll findhimself out in the street if he isn't careful."
This kind of talk shocked me, I can tell you, for I don't like tohear a man abusing his own family, and I could hardly believe that asteady youngster like Joshua had taken to drink. But just then incame butcher Aylwin in such a temper that he could hardly drink hisbeer. "The young puppy! the young puppy!" he kept on saying; and itwas some time before shoemaker and I found out that he was talkingabout his ancestor that fell at Senlac.
"Drink?" said shoemaker hopefully, for we all like company in ourmisfortunes, and butcher nodded grimly.
"The young noodle," he said, emptying his tankard.
Well, after that I kept my ears open, and it was the same story allover the village. There was hardly a young man among all the ghostsof Fairfield who didn't roll home in the small hours of the morningthe worse for liquor. I used to wake up in the night and hear themstumble past my house, singing outrageous songs. The worst of it wasthat we couldn't keep the scandal to ourselves and the folk atGreenhill began to talk of "sodden Fairfield" and taught theirchildren to sing a song about us:
"Sodden Fairfield, sodden Fairfield, has no use for bread-and-butter, Rum for breakfast, rum for dinner, rum for tea, and rum for supper!"
We are easy-going in our village, but we didn't like that.
Of course we soon found out where the young fellows went to get thedrink, and landlord was terribly cut up that his tenant should haveturned out so badly, but his wife wouldn't hear of parting with thebrooch, so that he couldn't give the Captain notice to quit. But astime went on, things grew from bad to worse, and at all hours of theday you would see those young reprobates sleeping it off on thevillage green. Nearly every afternoon a ghost-wagon used to jolt downto the ship with a lading of rum, and though the older ghosts seemedinclined to give the Captain's hospitality the go-by, the youngsterswere neither to hold nor to bind.
So one afternoon when I was taking my nap I heard a knock at thedoor, and there was parson looking very serious, like a man with ajob before him that he didn't altogether relish. "I'm going down totalk to the Captain about all this drunkenness in the village, and Iwant you to come with me," he said straight out.
I can't say that I fancied the visit much, myself, and I tried tohint to parson that as, after all, they were only a lot of ghosts itdidn't very much matter.
"Dead or alive, I'm responsible for the good conduct," he said, "andI'm going to do my duty and put a stop to this continued disorder.And you are coming with me John Simmons." So I went, parson being apersuasive kind of man.
We went down to the ship, and as we approached her I could see theCaptain tasting the air on deck. When he saw parson he took off hishat very politely and I can tell you that I was relieved to find thathe had a proper respect for the cloth. Parson acknowledged his saluteand spoke out stoutly enough. "Sir, I should be glad to have a wordwith you."
"Come on board, sir; come on board," said the Captain, and I couldtell by his voice that he knew why we were there. Parson and Iclimbed up an uneasy kind of ladder, and the Captain took us into thegreat cabin at the back of the ship, where the bay-window was. It wasthe most wonderful place you ever saw in your life, all full of goldand silver plate, swords with jewelled scabbards, carved oak chairs,and great chests that look as though they were bursting with guineas.Even parson was surprised, and he did not shake his head very hardwhen the Captain took down some silver cups and poured us out a drinkof rum. I tasted mine, and I don't mind saying that it changed myview of things entirely. There was nothing betwixt and between aboutthat rum, and I felt that it was ridiculous to blame the lads fordrinking too much of stuff like that. It seemed to fill my veins withhoney and fire.
Parson put the case squarely to the Captain, but I didn't listen muchto what he said; I was busy sipping my drink and looking through thewindow at the fishes swimming to and fro over landlord's turnips.Just then it seemed the most natural thing in the world that theyshould be there, though afterwards, of course, I could see that thatproved it was a ghost-ship.
But even then I thought it was queer when I saw a drowned sailorfloat by in the thin air with his hair and beard all full of bubbles.It was the first time I had seen anything quite like that atFairfield.
All the time I was regarding the wonders of the deep parson wastelling Captain Roberts how there was no peace or rest in the villageowing to the curse of drunkenness, and what a bad example theyoungsters were setting to the older ghosts. The Captain listenedvery attentively, and only put in a word now and then about boysbeing boys and young men sowing their wild oats. But when parson hadfinished his speech he filled up our silver cups and said to parson,with a flourish, "I should be sorry to cause trouble anywhere where Ihave been made welcome, and you will be glad to hear that I put tosea tomorrow night. And now you must drink me a prosperous voyage."So we all stood up and drank the toast with honour, and that noblerum was like hot oil in my veins.
After that Captain showed us some of the curiosities he had broughtback from foreign parts, and we were greatly amazed, thoughafterwards I couldn't clearly remember what they were. And then Ifound myself walking across the turnips with parson, and I wastelling him of the glories of the deep that I had seen through thewindow of the ship. He turned on me severely. "If I were you, JohnSimmons," he said, "I should go straight home to bed." He has a wayof putting things that wouldn't occur to an ordinary man, has parson,and I did as he told me.
Well, next day it came on to blow, and it blew harder and harder,till about eight o'clock at night I heard a noise and looked out intothe garden. I dare say you won't believe me, it seems a bit tall evento me, but the wind had lifted the thatch of my pigsty into thewidow's garden a second time. I thought I wouldn't wait to hear whatwidow had to say about it, so I went across the green to the "Fox andGrapes", and the wind was so strong that I danced along on tiptoelike a girl at the fair. When I got to the inn landlord had to helpme shut the door; it seemed as though a dozen goats were pushingagainst it to come in out of the storm.
"It's a powerful tempest," he said, drawing the beer. "I hear there'sa chimney down at Dickory End."
"It's a funny thing how these sailors know about the weather," Ianswered. "When Captain said he was going tonight, I was thinking itwould take a capful of wind to carry the ship back to sea, but nowhere's more than a capful."
"Ah, yes," said landlord, "it's tonight he goes true enough, and,mind you, though he treated me handsome over the rent, I'm not sureit's a loss to the village. I don't hold with gentrice who fetchtheir drink from London instead of helping local traders to get theirliving."
"But you haven't got any rum like his," I said, to draw him out.
His neck grew red above his collar, and I was afraid I'd gone toofar; but after a while he got his breath with a grunt.
"John Simmons," he said, "if you've come down here this windy nightto talk a lot of fool's talk, you've wasted a journey."
Well, of course, then I had to smooth him down with praising his rum,and Heaven forgive me for swearing it was better than Captain's. Forthe like of that rum no living lips have tasted save mine andparson's. But somehow or other I brought landlord round, andpresently we must have a glass of his best to prove its quality.
"Beat that if you can!" he cried, and we both raised our glasses toour mouths, only to stop half-way and look at each other in amaze.For the wind that had been howling outside like an outrageous dog hadall of a sudden turned as melodious as the carol-boys of a ChristmasEve.
"Surely that's not my Martha," whispered landlord; Martha being hisgreat-aunt that lived in the loft overhead.
We went to the door, and the wind burst it open so that the handlewas driven clean into the plaster of the wall. But we didn't thinkabout that at the time; for over our heads, sailing very comfortablythrough the windy stars, was the ship that had passed the summer inlandlord's field. Her portholes and her bay-window were blazing withlights, and there was a noise of singing and fiddling on her decks."He's gone," shouted landlord above the storm, "and he's taken halfthe village with him!" I could only nod in answer, not having lungslike bellows of leather.
In the morning we were able to measure the strength of the storm, andover and above my pigsty there was damage enough wrought in thevillage to keep us busy. True it is that the children had to breakdown no branches for the firing that autumn, since the wind hadstrewn the woods with more than they could carry away. Many of ourghosts were scattered abroad, but this time very few came back, allthe young men having sailed with Captain; and not only ghosts, for apoor half-witted lad was missing, and we reckoned that he had stowedhimself away or perhaps shipped as cabin-boy, not knowing any better.
What with the lamentations of the ghost-girls and the grumbling offamilies who had lost an ancestor, the village was upset for a while,and the funny thing was that it was the folk who had complained mostof the carryings-on of the youngsters, who made most noise now thatthey were gone. I hadn't any sympathy with shoemaker or butcher, whoran about saying how much they missed their lads, but it made megrieve to hear the poor bereaved girls calling their lovers by nameon the village green at nightfall. It didn't seem fair to me thatthey should have lost their men a second time, after giving up lifein order to join them, as like as not. Still, not even a spirit canbe sorry for ever, and after a few months we made up our mind thatthe folk who had sailed in the ship were never coming back, and wedidn't talk about it any more.
And then one day, I dare say it would be a couple of years after,when the whole business was quite forgotten, who should cometrapesing along the road from Portsmouth but the daft lad who hadgone away with the ship, without waiting till he was dead to become aghost. You never saw such a boy as that in all your life. He had agreat rusty cutlass hanging to a string at his waist, and he wastattooed all over in fine colours, so that even his face looked likea girl's sampler. He had a handkerchief in his hand full of foreignshells and old-fashioned pieces of small money, very curious, and hewalked up to the well outside his mother's house and drew himself adrink as if he had been nowhere in particular.
The worst of it was that he had come back as soft-headed as he went,and try as we might we couldn't get anything reasonable out of him.He talked a lot of gibberish about keel-hauling and walking theplank and crimson murders--things which a decent sailor should knownothing about, so that it seemed to me that for all his mannersCaptain had been more of a pirate than a gentleman mariner. But todraw sense out of that boy was as hard as picking cherries off acrab-tree. One silly tale he had that he kept on drifting back to,and to hear him you would have thought that it was the only thingthat happened to him in his life. "We was at anchor," he would say,"off an island called the Basket of Flowers, and the sailors hadcaught a lot of parrots and we were teaching them to swear. Up anddown the decks, up and down the decks, and the language they usedwas dreadful. Then we looked up and saw the masts of the Spanishship outside the harbour. Outside the harbour they were, so we threwthe parrots into the sea and sailed out to fight. And all theparrots were drownded in the sea and the language they used wasdreadful." That's the sort of boy he was, nothing but silly talk ofparrots when we asked him about the fighting. And we never had achance of teaching him better, for two days after he ran away again,and hasn't been seen since.
That's my story, and I assure you that things like that are happeningat Fairfield all the time. The ship has never come back, but somehowas people grow older they seem to think that one of these windynights she'll come sailing in over the hedges with all the lostghosts on board. Well, when she comes, she'll be welcome. There's oneghost-lass that has never grown tired of waiting for her lad toreturn. Every night you'll see her out on the green, straining herpoor eyes with looking for the mast-lights among the stars. Afaithful lass you'd call her, and I'm thinking you'd be right.
Landlord's field wasn't a penny the worse for the visit, but they dosay that since then the turnips that have been grown in it havetasted of rum.
