Chapter XXIX.

Philip Accepts an Appointment.

"And what brings you here, Charley?" asked Philip, when the two young men were alone that evening.

"On my way South to get a couple of young bulls the governor has bought," replied that young gentleman.

"What! are you going to keep cattle at Terua?" asked Philip.

"Yes," said Charley, "it is much easier working the place with cattle."

"And what do you think of it now?"

"A splendid place," replied Charley, "only it wants a lot of money to work it."

"But what on earth are you going to do with a couple of well-bred bulls up there," asked Philip? "Any scrubbers ought to do you on rough hills."

"Very true," replied Charley, "but the governor bought these from Maitland without saying a word to me, and as he has bought them I may as well take them. The steamer doesn't go South till Tuesday, and I thought I should have time to get as far as your place, so I rode out here this afternoon.

"Well, Charley, it is no use your going to Apanui to find me," replied Philip; "for, you see, I have left. Douglas has the place now, and I hope he will do well out of it."

"I am afraid, Manning," replied Charley, after a short pause, "that you have made a mess of it, if you didn't mind my saying so. Why did you not lay the case before Mr. Easthorpe? He told me, only yesterday, that if you had mentioned the matter to him, he would have done what he could for you with the Bank, and you know what that means? He fancied that something was wrong, seeing you with Leighton; but he didn't know that Apanui was actually in danger of being sold."

"Well it was, you see, and it has gone; but it was very good of his saying that," replied Philip, referring to the former part of Charley's remark. "I wish now that I had asked him? But don't trouble about it, like a good fellow. Let bye-gones be bye-gones. (Philip was not in this mood the day before.) Apanui has gone, and I am coming up to Terua to stay with you for a time, if you will have me, and then I intend to turn medico, at least Dr. Goring advises me to do so."

"Ah!" said Charley, "did you call at the Goring's yesterday?"

"Yes."

"Many there?" queried Charley.

"No," replied Philip.

Then there was a silence, broken by Philip asking, "What sort of a horse have you got?"

"Not much of a one," answered Charley. "I hired him in town, and his legs are too puffed for much work."

"Then, if you are going as far as Ashton to-morrow," continued Philip, "instead of waiting for the coach, take my horse, and you can easily be back here to-morrow night."

Philip appeared to take it for granted that Charley was going to Ashton.

"I think I will," replied Charley. "Stay here till I come back like a good fellow, and we will go to town together on Tuesday morning. I will get you to look after some rams for me that have just come over from Australia, and we will go up to Terua together."

"Thank you for the appointment," said Philip. "It will be something for me to do. What are they; merinoes?"

"Yes. Some of the ugliest beggars you ever saw. There is one 'King Billy;' you never saw such a fighting character."

"I suppose they are pedigree rams."

"Yes," said Charley, "the governor sent for the best he could get, and I think he did right."

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"Any ewes?" asked Philip.

"Fifteen," replied Charley. And our two friends then talked sundry and divers matters about sheep and stock.

When a man sends for the best of anything, he usually is careless about the price, and he generally gets the thing good. These twenty-five sheep (there were ten rams) had no doubt cost a lot of money. Charley thought about £500. This was rather a long price, but the advantage of importing and using good stock cannot be over-estimated, as the strain of blood tells through the whole flock. It is also a general advantage to the colony at large, for good blood lasts long, and of course gives a good foundation to future herds and flocks. In this case Mr. Easthorpe was simply looking to his own interests. He wanted to throw a strain of good blood into Beeton's poor crawlers, and the best way was to get some good rams and a few ewes as the foundation of a stud flock. Then in the course of a few years, especially if he picked up some small flocks of good ewes in the colony, the sheep would improve, and in place of clipping two or three pounds of wool on the average, he would get five or six, and a five pound clip on a rough run from merino sheep is very fair indeed. Of course people in New Zealand are but moderate men, and cannot afford to give the fancy prices that rule for good stock in Australia, where sometimes as much as £700 is given for a single ram. Yet there are many stations, not quite so out of the way as Terua, where everything is done in the best possible manner. To see forty or fifty thousand well-bred sheep, a hundred good Clydesdales, and fair enough thoroughbreds, the sires imported from Home at perhaps a cost of £500 each, and eight hundred or a thousand well-bred shorthorns is not an everyday occurrence even in America. Indeed, it is much to be doubted whether America possesses such well-bred stock as New Zealand in proportion to size. The pigs, fowls, and dogs too, are of the best, for when a man determines to have one thing good, he may as well have everything. If men and women before emigrating to Australia had undergone the process of selection so thoroughly as stock has been subjected to that process, what a splendid race the colonists would become! Not that it is to be supposed the original colonists came of a poor race, especially those migrating to New Zealand, where warfare with a savage tribe was to be expected. On the contrary, it took a great deal of courage for an emigrant to make up his mind to leave the shores of Old England, so that we must give the colonists credit for possessing the free roving spirit of adventure which animated their Saxon ancestors. That spirit cannot be encased in a very poor body, and we must suppose a certain amount of natural selection even amongst the human migrators.

Let us go back. In those early times it required a spirit of adventure to face the difficulties of emigrating so far as New Zealand. Shipwreck and disaster by sea and on the coast, and a warlike race of natives on the land, were no common objects of opposition. Charts of the harbors were hardly to be obtained, for little had been done in the way of minute surveying. "Keep the reef on your larboard hand," were all the instructions the captain of one of the first emigrant ships received at Gravesend when departing for the almost unknown port of Hamilton, and "Get out of the Channel as quickly as possible" was combined with it. For Her Majesty's Government in those days would not countenance this emigration, and we can fancy the emigrants stealing down the English Channel, in dread of being detained by one of the war vessels. Then, as soon as the good ship was out in the open ocean, the people on board breathed free, and cried "Hey for the new land," and regarded a strange sail with a little more confidence. That the first emigrants should have set out for the Colony in this underhand way, defying the wrath of the Home Government, the dangers of the sea, and the terror of the natives is certainly to their credit; but it is curious also, for little thought had they, stealing thus away from England's coast, that they were to become the founders of a great and wealthy Colony. They must have come of good stock or they would not have braved all this.

Illi robur et ces triplex

Circa pectus erat,

Oak and three-fold brass must have surrounded their hearts.

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"Nothing like good stock, said Charley philosophically. I wish to heaven, though, that those sheep were up at Terua. They will be a bother to drive, and I haven't brought any dog with me."

"I intend to take Lassie and Darkie with me," replied Philip, "and I can easily look after the sheep for you. I expect you will have enough to do with the bulls. But what did your governor want to buy two bulls for?"

"Can't say," replied Charley, "but he bought them. One of them is only a youngster, though, and has a better pedigree than the other. He will come on all right if the old bull doesn't kill him on the way up.—Awfully glad though, Manning, that you will look after the sheep for me. I should have had to have sent Henry to Edgecombe for them if you had'nt your dogs with you." And Charley went away next morning to Ashton pleased that he had satisfactorily arranged about driving his stock.

The next day passed away quickly. In the morning Willie Douglas took Philip round the run, and the afternoon was occupied by a geneal game in the garden. May Douglas, not being in any particular disgrace, took charge of Philip, and offered to swing him when he declined to swing her, or to play croquet or shuttlecock, and give him long odds that she would beat him, or even to run him as far as the entrance gate, if he would give her fifty yards start, or, finally, to catch her pony before he could catch it—Some of which offers Philip accepted, until Mary came and joined them.

"Oh, Mary," at last said the young vixen, "You are not going to sit there all the afternoon,"—for Philip and Mary had quietly seated themselves under one of the trees,—"Do come and have a game!"

"You are a great nuisance, May," said Mary, taking her upon her lap—whereupon Miss May rested her head upon Mary's shoulder, and became quiet for half-an-hour, looking at Philip, and joining occasionally in the conversation with various wise and profound remarks. Then her sister Ethel came and sat down by Philip, and the talk lasted into the twilight, when—

The falling dews with spangles decked the glade,
And the low sun was lengthening every shade.

It was time to go into the house. Only this is to be recorded, that when Mary was seeing the little cousins in bed that night, May stopped her from going away, and earnestly asked whether she really had been a nuisance. Now Mary had quite forgotten having said so, but when she recalled the circumstance to her mind she laughed and kissed the little thing, and told her to lie down and go to sleep, and never to mind. And May went to sleep comforted with the thought that she had not been a nuisance after all.

Chapter XXX.

The Journey Up.

Charley returned to the glen very late. He had stayed too long at the Willows. It must have been nine o'clock before he left, and he had a four hours' ride before him. It was a cold night, too, but the stars glittered brightly, and Prince carried him well along the road. Had he not been with his lady-love, all the evening—the remembrance of which would have to last him for longer than a few hours' ride? The doctor too appeared delighted to see him, and altogether he had passed a most pleasant day. On parting, he had told Kate not to be foolish, nor to think he was to be eaten up by the Maoris (although it was true that on the other coast some tribes of natives had become troublesome of late), but that some day he hoped to take her up to Terua and show her what sort of a place it was.—At which Kate blushed prettily, and Master Charley, I am sorry to say, did his best to effectually hide the blushes.

Doctor Goring very wisely left the young people to themselves, or rather attempted to do so by going into the surgery and making a determined attempt to make up his books. The worthy doctor, however, could not set his mind to the task, but fell into many reveries, and thought more of his daughter's happiness, perhaps, than of his books One thing is quite certain, that when his wife entered the room to see how he had got on, she found him in about the same position as when he started.

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"You see, Jimmy," said be, apologetically, "I've been thinking,"—and then he told his wife of what he had been thinking, and the matter ended by Mrs. Goring helping him to make up the books—which, indeed, was her usual custom.

Charlie left Prince in the stable for the night. It was hardly fair to turn the horse out after pushing him along as he had done, and then went to bed. The next morning he and Philip caught the mail coach and drove into Hamilton.

"I suppose you will tell everybody that I went to Ashton," he had said to Mary, on parting. But Mary replied—"No, Charley, I shall not," so quietly, that he could not help observing to Philip, that "his cousin had grown quite solemn since he had last seen her."

Philip appeared to agree with him, and there the matter ended, for just then Lassie, in place of riding quietly on the top of the coach, made strenuous and determined attempts to hang herself over the side, which caused Philip to take her down and tie her up with Darkey underneath the coach. A couple of hours' drive took them without further accident into Hamilton, and Charley had barely time to see his friends and catch the steamer South.

"The sheep are up at the house," said he to Philip. "You must give a look at them occasionally. I shall be back on Friday with the bulls. Good-bye, old fellow," and the steamer was off.

So Philip looked up the sheep occasionally in a bowling green sort of paddock near the house, and passed one or two evenings with Mr. and Mrs. Easthorpe. He had partly got over his fit of the miserables since he had been at the Glen, and was looking forward to better prospects ahead. Something would turn up somewhere he felt certain, and to Mr. Easthorpe's surprise the ruined young man appeared cheerful enough. Luckily that gentleman was blissfully ignorant of the true ause of Philip's serenity.

"If you really think of practising your profession," Mrs. Easthorpe had said, "I shall send you some patients."

At which remark Mr. Easthorpe smiled quietly, and warned Philip not to rely too much upon his wife's patients, that is if he expected any fees out of them.

"I am sure Mr. Manning would prescribe for little Newell," replied Mrs. Easthorpe somewhat indignantly to her husband.

"No doubt he would," Mr. Easthorpe said; "but some of your patients are not so deserving as Newell. You remember Marshall?"

Mrs. Easthorpe appeared to be convinced of the truth of her husband's charge in Marshall's case, but not in Newell's; and she explained to Philip that Newell was an orphan whom the Benevolent Society, of which she was a member, had managed to get into the hospital whilst suffering under a temporary illness, and then had managed to keep him there so as to take him out of the hands of the police, there being no provision in Hamilton for the custody of orphans. The lad would either have had to go to gaol or to the Industrial Home, another name for a Reformatory, where he would have had to mix with extremely bad characters. The society had advertised and made enquiries for some benevolently disposed person to take charge of this waif and stray of humanity, the usual custom in such cases, but no person had answered the application. The Superintendent of Police kept an eye on the lad also (an orphan was one of his bête noirs, as he really did not know what to do with it); but Mrs. Easthorpe, by getting the boy into the hospital, evidently was master of the situation; and Philip, struck with the case, cordially promised to look after this patient at any rate.

"Yes, but tell Mr. Manning about Marshall," said Mr. Easthorpe.

"Well, my dear," replied his wife laughing, "Marshall was a lazy young fellow." And then the good little lady told Philip how she had been deceived by a lazy young scamp who had imposed upon her good nature, and who had travelled through the country from station to station for years, receiving his food, but never doing a hand's turn of work, and finally had brought himself up in Hamilton and imposed upon Mrs. Easthorpe, much to her husband's amusement.

Walking through the streets of Hamilton was rather wearisome just then to Philip, and he consequently kept away from the heart of the city. It is not pleasant to be reminded of our misfortunes, however well disposed the speakers may be. Philip could not help meeting with many men who were acquainted with page 18 the late sale of Apanui, and who stopped him, good naturedly enough, to commiserate upon the hardness of the Bank, and the severity of the crisis. Nor could he be cordial with Mr. Leighton, the Bank Manager, who in such cases as this thought it best to refrain from any expression of sympathy, but contented himself in Philip's case with enquiring as to what he intended to do. Old Mr. Borthwick came up as the two happened to be speaking—so Philip very shortly answered the question—and felt glad of the interruption.

On the Friday the steamer North brought Charley back with the cattle, and there was not too much time to spare to take the sheep down to the wharf. Philip much regretted Charley's punctual return, as Mary Easthorpe was to be back from the Glen that evening. But the tide waits for no man, and the steamer had to proceed on its journey. The sheep were put into some small pens on deck, near to the horse boxes, which contained the bulls. Darkey and Lassie were tied up alongside, and Charley had his valuable freight safely together under his eye.

Mr. Easthorpe came down to the steamer to have a look at his purchases, and to see how the old bull enjoyed the journey. That fine animal did not appear to recognize him in the circle of onlookers, but snorted a bit, and made a playful attempt to gore its new owner to death; whereupon he gave up scratching him, remarking to Charley "that he would find him a good bull for the few cows he had at Terua."

"Maitland would'nt send me a bad beast," continued Mr. Easthorpe, running his eye over the animal, "but I hardly know what to think of the young one."

"We cannot well tell how he will turn out yet awhile," observed Charley. "He is rather young"

"He will get used to the place," replied Mr. Easthorpe. And as it was necessary for him to express some sort of an opinion upon the merits of the animal (he was not a particular good judge of cattle) he hazarded the remark "that he thought the young bull was rather light behind." This was a safe opinion, especially as he could not well see the bull, and neither Charley nor Philip differed with him. The two animals were doubtless glad enough when the inspection was over, and the steamer again on its journey, for it was not pleasant to be pinched and poked about by a score of strange hands. But they had to put up with this, and as a reward received each a great bundle of freshly cut grass which Charley had brought down to the vessel. Luckily the weather was good and the sea pretty smooth. By the time Edgecombe was reached all the animals and their two new masters were on better terms of intimacy. True, Lassie became dreadfully sea-sick, but a few moments play of the hose, when the decks were washed down of a morning, soon knocked all that sort of thing out of her, and as soon as she got better, the extraordinary exhibits of affection, whenever Philip or Charley happened to stroll near to where she was tied up, was a sight to the other passengers. A sheep dog on board a coasting steamer is generally one of the most miserable, woe-begone sights, and fairly enough resembles a fish out of water. Only when its master goes near does it brighten up, and then almost begs to be let loose.

Charley and Philip meanwhile strolled the deck together, exchanging thoughts upon past events, and watching the other passengers. There happened to be a greater number than usual upon the steamer, and there was plenty of amusement in observing them. Nearly all the travelling in New Zealand is done by steamer, so people are more used to the sea than in other colonies, and enjoy themselves more when on board ship. Ladies are not so sea-sick (or if they are unwell they soon recover), and men not so unsocial. Intimacies are quickly struck up; as quickly to be broken. People come and go at each port, and one never knows whether the same person will be seated by one's side at table at the next meal as at the last. One class alone always appears the same, the noisy commercial traveller, full of fun and joke, and anecdote; the king of the smoking-room, and apparently the most cheerful of mortals under the most untoward of circumstances. His dreadfully sporting looking costume, heavy watch-chain, and heavier luggage, quickly proclaims the individual as one of the class, and his cheerful good humor usually supports his appearance. We do not say that his conversation is particularly bright or intellectual, but to a casual voyageur it is amusing enough. The evening before Edgecombe was reached, one or two of these passen- page 19 gers had decoyed the Captain into the smoking-room on deck, and the night being fine, but dark and cold, the invitation could not be resisted. True, the room contained a numerous company, and the atmosphere was dense with smoke, but the Captain managed to find a seat near Philip, and was soon bandying compliments in a quiet way with the noisy commercial men.

"Come, Captain," said one of them at last, who appeared to know him most intimately, "spin us a yarn. Tell us of the wreck of the William and Julia."

"Perhaps the gentlemen have heard it before," replied the Captain, looking round him with the air of a man ready to tell a story to a good circle of listeners.

"Not they," said his questioner, looking at Charley and Philip, and the other casual passengers, and answering for them, "so out with it man. We haven't heard that story for many a long day."

"Well, I will just take a look outside," said the Captain, and got up to see that the vessel was going her proper course. He was a quiet reserved sort of man, and had been for many years on the coast; thoroughly trustworthy, and well known as a careful master of a ship. His story is still in Charley and Philip's remembrance, and in after years, when Captain Wilson was lying "five fathoms deep" in the blue sea, they often thought of it. But this chapter is sufficiently long, and we will relate what the Captain said in a fresh one.

Chapter XXXI.

The Captain's Story.

"Well, gentlemen," continued the Captain, after he had resumed his seat, "I expect you will hardly believe what I am going to tell you, but it is true enough, I can assure you, although there is no one alive to vouch for its accuracy except my self. We were running for Edgecombe when the mishap I am going to tell you about occurred, and had left the Wairoa with a fair breeze and the prospect of a quick voyage. The William and Julia was only a small topsail schooner of about sixty tons, and not a big steamer like this. I was master and half owner of her, and had for a crew Andy Murray and three seamen. We were loaded with timber, grass seed, a couple of tons of carrots, some wine, and a big case of machinery. It was on a Sunday, about two bells in the forenoon, that we were capsized, after passing the Straits all right, and about 30 miles from Kapiti Island, bearing S.E. After leaving Wairoa it came on a stiff nor'-wester, and blew me away from Kapiti into the mouth of the Straits, so we took shelter under the Island for nearly a week until the gale was over. Many of you gentlemen, perhaps, have had to take shelter there too?

"Yes," answered one of the passengers, "and unpleasant work it is."

"Well, continued the Captain in his quiet manner, as soon as the weather cleared off, we made sail for Edgecombe, and just as I made the port, a southeaster came on and blew me away for a week off the Cape; and on the Sunday we were capsized, nearly three weeks out. The sails had been knocked about too much, and were old. The nor'-wester had blown away one set, and the southeaster had blown the mainsail clean away. We bent the jib, but she wouldn't come to the wind, but laid in the sea. There we were, and nothing further could be done. About 9 o'clock on the Sunday morning I was down below changing my clothes; two of the men were at the pumps, and Andy, that was the mate, was standing on the companion, just about going on deck. "If we get back all right," says he, turning round, "you won't find me doing the Straits in a hurry again in the winter;" and the words were hardly out of his mouth when a terrific sea struck the schooner, threw us on our beam ends, and turned us bottom up. I tried to get on deck, but Andy was jammed in the companion. It was lucky I didn't get out, for no man could have lived out that gale. I just caught a sight of the deck through the water, and saw the men fall away from the pumps, and then Andy and I were splashing away in the cabin with the floor above our heads. I had told the two men to look to the pumps before they went below, and before Andy spoke I heard one of them say to the other, "Oh, she's all right, she'll weather it. The other man was down below for' ard. He was drowned, and found afterwards when the schooner drifted ashore.

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"What, captain, "asked one of the passengers," had the scooner turned bottom up?"

"Yes," replied the captain, "turned turtle completely."

"Don't interrupt the story, sir," said the noisy traveller from the corner were he sat; and the captain continued.

"Well, as Andy and I were splashing about, the lazarette hatch at the foot of the companion ladder fell between us, and I said to Andy:—

"If we could get up there, Andy, we should be all right;" and knowing that the little lazarette was full of stones, which had been put in to trim the vessel, I told him to pull out as many as he could so as to make room for himself, which he did; and then I got up and did the same. There was not more than 18 or 19 inches of height in the little place; only just sufficient to lay down in, and I can assure you, gentlemen, it was pretty close quarters. We turned out about twenty fathom of chain, but the end got foul between the big case and the bulk head, and there it hung. There was plenty of light, and I could just reach the water by stretching down my arm. But gradually the water got higher and higher as the vessel settled down, and we had to clear out or be drowned like rats.

All day Sunday we worked away at clearing out the stones, and trying to make a trunk way forward through the timber to get at the wine and provisions; and on Monday we tried to do the same, but had to give it up, as the timber was too long. Still the work did us good and kept evil thoughts away. We didn't speak much to each other, but leant over the hatch for hours watching the constant bubbling of the water beneath, as it rose and fell in the little cabin. A mist appeared to be constantly rising from the water, and we never felt any want of air. Indeed a cold draft appeared to sweep through the vessel's hold. Perhaps the little bubbles and mist supplied us with air. We both felt very tired, while each had a curious pressure in the drums of the ears. We weren't hungry or thirsty, only tired. The rolling of the vessel wore our arms into holes, while the coal-dust fell into our eyes, which we scooped out as well as we could with our fingers. I had some bricks for a pillow, but my own pillow took to floating about, so I seized it, and it gave me some help. I was right aft, and the mate close alongside. The noise in the ship all day and night was constant, and we hardly got any sleep.

On the Tuesday, the water was still rising, and I said to Andy, as plucky a young fellow as ever lived, "I'm not going to stay here to be drowned" (I felt that the sea was getting calmer outside), and I tried to get down three times that morning to see how to get out, for although you gentlemen may not think it, it was very dangerous work getting out of that cabin. We couldn't dive, for the water was nearly level with the hatch, and the only chance was to pull ourselves down, get through the companion, and out on deck as best we could, then under the taffrail, and so up to the surface. The companion ladder had been broken away by some locker boards, and the chain had also slipped away. The swish-wash in the cabin, as the vessel rose and fell, was like a sucker; and if I once had let go of the combing, I should never have reached it again. I tried to make use of a piece of canvas over one of the bunks, but that gave way. However, I managed to reach under the bunk with my foot, and that was the way to effect our purpose; first to pull ourselves down with the foot, then with the hands, then lay hold of the scuttle, and so out on deck.

Was it very cold asked one of the listeners as the Captain here made a pause and sipped his grog.

"Aye, that it was," replied he, "bitterly cold." I had torn off my coat and waistcoat when the vessel turned over, and I can tell you that it was cold enough lying in the lazarette. Every time she rose and fell the wind cut past like a knife. I had kept on my sou'-wester, and I had also a large comforter, with which I tried to keep myself warm. We once thought of cutting ourselves out, and had actually made a commencement, when the thought struck me that if we once let the air out the vessel would sink. I have heard since of vessels being thrown ashore that had capsized, and from which the poor fellows had tried to cut themselves out, but directly they made a small hole with a knife, out rushed some of the imprisoned air, and the vessel sank deeper down, drowning those inside.

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But to continue with my own yarn. After discussing the matter, I told Andy to go first, as it was my duty to be last on board, and to lend the mate a hand if anything happened. Andy wanted me to go first, but I gave him the extra chance, and he slipped down and got his toe under the bunk. I told him "to hold on till I said the word," for there were times when the suction was not so great as at others. I watched a favorable moment, and said "off with you, lad," and Andy pulled himself down all right, and I saw him go out of the companion. I had told him which way to cant so as to clear the boom, not knowing the masts had gone by the board. I saw him go the proper way, and then waited ten minutes to hear him knock as we had arranged, but poor Andy never knocked. So I went after him; got down all right, but never thought of opening my eyes till I got between the wheel and the scuttle, with my head, elbows and knees pinned up to the deck. My eyes stuck together like glue, but I managed to open them, and looked about for a second. The deck looked quite plain, though a little misty, and the masts were gone. But I hadn't much time to look at things, and quickly pulled myself by the wheel and companion to the taffrail, under the wire, and catching hold of a piece of chaffing-gear gave myself a pull up, and pu-u-u-u rose to the surface very nearly gone for breath. I had taken in a long breath before leaving the cabin, but it hardly lasted me.

Well, I found myself near the ship, with Cape Edgecombe in the distance. The water was still pouring over the vessel's bottom, so I said to myself, treading water all the time, "Old man," said I, "it won't do to go there," for as the water fell off, the back-wash would have drowned me. I fancy Andy got drowned trying to get on to the bottom. At any rate, I saw nothing of him. Looking round I perceived, just astern, the wreck of the masts, fastened by the cordage to the vessel, but the hulk apparently was drifting faster than the spars, and they hung behind, so I made for the spars, and got on the main boom. The boom rolled too much, and I could hardly hold on. I saw the deck end of the foremast standing up nearly four feet out of the water, so I made for that, and with the help of a part of the little winch, which had been broken, managed to get a foothold for one foot, spell and spell about. Luckily, there was a piece of about four fathom of line left on the winch, and with this I bound myself to the mast, and stayed there all that night.

On the Wednesday morning, about eight bells, I determined to make for the ship, as it was too tiring standing with the water up to one's knees. Oftentimes during the night I had felt drowsy, and badly wanted to lay down. I did go to sleep a little, but the sea occasionally struck the mast and wetted me all over. So I unbound myself and struck out for the wreck. It was bitterly cold, and I could hardly swim, being very weak. The bowsprit had somehow got across the bows, and the water was still falling off the bottom, and the back-wash would have sucked me down. I made for the bowsprit, and paddled slowly, as I sank very deep, the water just up to my lips. I got on to the bowsprit and then on to the bottom, or rather on to the keel, which was about a foot above the floor of the vessel, and sat down. I badly wanted to lie down, and as the keel was a foot broad I did so, but the water occasionally splashed over the keel, and directly I fell asleep I rolled off and woke up again. Then I tried to walk, but was too weak and had to crawl, but I tried, and tried, until I could walk.

About 12 o'clock I saw a vessel bearing down towards me, so I waved my sou'-wester, but no notice was taken. I waved again and again, and then I saw her sails flap as if she were going about, but she still kept on. I waited a few moments to allow her to come within a mile or so (for as long as she kept on her course I was right), and then waved again. Then I saw somebody jump on the rail, and look searchingly towards me with a pair of glasses. Then up went the flag, and I knew I was saved.

They lowered a boat, and when it came alongside I actually jumped into it almost briskly. They asked me if there was anybody else, but I said no. I had to be assisted up the vessel's side, and I couldn't walk aft. The captain had me undressed and put to bed, and some hot water bottles put to my feet, and gave me a little weak brandy and water occasionally. About 4 o'clock I had some soup, as page 26 the captain wouldn't give me any water, but a cup of coffee about 12 o'clock that night was the nicest thing I ever tasted in all my life. I couldn't get any sleep, but just dozed off.

Next morning I saw some clothes placed by the side of the bunk, but the slippers were too small as my feet were much swollen. I turned out, but couldn't stand. However, I persevered, and managed to dress and crawl up the companion, and by a good many efforts at last managed to walk. The captain thought me a pretty strong sort of fellow to be able to get about so quickly as that, and so I must have been. We reached one of the little ports near Edgecombe on the Saturday, whither the vessel was bound. Her name was the Hannah Brown, and I shan't forget her in a hurry—for, although I am a Bideford man, and have been five-and-twenty years at sea, and seen many curious things, I never had such a narrow squeak as in that capsize. When we got to Edgecombe I telegraphed to my wife and the owners that I had lost the vessel, and when I got home my wife took my coming in as naturally as if the William and Julia had been lying alongside the wharf all the time.

"And what became of the wreck?" asked Charley.

Well, the hulk drifted about for some time and then drifted ashore on the Sandspit, where it was afterwards found and sold for a song. I have never seen it from that day to this, but she was a good little craft both alow and aloft, and had I only had a storm trysail with me we should never have been capsized. But I never wish to live in a lazerette again, for those few days gave me a good many grey hairs and lost Andy the number of his mess.

"Thank you, captain," chimed in the passengers. "A very good story."

"You almost tell it as if it were true," said the commercial traveller. At this the captain gave his quiet smile, and went out to look after his ship.

Chapter XXXII.

A Close Shave.

The next morning the vessel reached Edgecombe, and the sheep and cattle were safely landed. There was some little bother in taking the young bull up the wharf, for directly he felt himself on terra firma, if a wooden wharf can be called hard ground, he became restive and played up a bit, but Philip held him firmly, and he soon gave in. Charley had arranged to put the two animals in a stockyard for the night, and the sheep in a paddock adjoining. Charley took charge of the old bull, and marched him off to the stockyard, and Philip followed, A man had come down to take the bull, but as he appeared rather frightened of the animal Charley took him himself.

"Don't let the dogs go, Charley," said Philip. "Wait till we get the sheep ashore. They will stay better with the sheep."

"All right," acquiesced Charley, busily engaged fastening the bull. "What an obstinate beast this is."

However, Charley got his nose ring in, and the stick fast to that, and Mr. Bully had to walk up the wharf. He just turned once or twice as if he was going to toss Charley into minute atoms, much to the alarm of the lookers on, but a prod or two in the nose with the stick soon brought him to his senses.

The animals were got into the yards safe enough, and tied up to the fence, and their nose rings taken out.

"We had better give them a little water," said Philip, and the man brought a couple of buckets of water to the gate.

Philip took his bucket, and as he happened to be close to the gate of the yard in which the old bull was he went in, leaving Charley to give the water to the young bull. (I call the bull old, but only in comparison with the young one. He was only five years of age or a little over.) The bull drank the water, and our friend Philip seeing him still holding down his head in the bucket, fancied he wanted more. He therefore went to take the bucket away, but no sooner was his hand fairly on the handle than the bull rushed him.

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"Look out, Manning!" cried Charley from his yard, but there was no necessity for warning. Philip sprang across the yard at racing speed, and the bull after him. The yard was not more than thirty feet across, but the bull from his long confinement couldn't get up speed sufficient to catch Philip, in that short distance, who reached the fence just as the bull's horns were within six inches of him. Philip turned and saw the bull's head beneath him, and sprang up the fence all fours with the agility of a lamplighter, and sat on the top rail, and gazed at the animal still standing below, looking up at him, while Charley laughed so much at seeing Philip's frightened look and the way he went up the fence that he had to lean against a stockyard post.

"It's all very well, my boy," said Philip, walking along the top of the fence to where Charley stood, while the bull kept him company down below, wondering how Philip managed to get up there, and anxious to give him just one taste of his horns; "but if he had pinned me against the fence, he would have cracked me like a nutshell."

"What did you do to the beast?"

"Nothing," answered Philip. "I was just taking the bucket away. By Jove, where did I get that blood?" and then Philip perceived that his hands were smeared with blood.

"You must have got that taking the ring out of the young bull's nose." said Charley. "Why didn't you wash your hands?"

"Well, if I had known the beast was such a Tartar, I'd have been more careful. But let us go and get the sheep. You will have to keep an eye on that animal, Charley, or he will be up to mischief."

"I don't care much when we get him out on the run," answered Charley.

"You can't use a horse in your country, or I should like to have the cutting out of that gentleman," grimly thinking of a good stockwhip, said Philip, and they then went down and fetched up the sheep, much to the delight of Darkie and Lassie, who were as wild as two hares, and quite frightened the sheep up into the smallest of bunches. But a stone or two soon brought them to their senses, and they behaved properly, and took the sheep safely through the town.

As soon as the sheep were in their paddock our two friends went to Charley's hotel, brushed themselves up a little, and then strolled through the town. Charley had many things to see after, and Philip accompanied him into all the stores and shops he had to visit, where Charley arranged about saddlery and other matters.

"Everywhere Charley was received with the utmost courtesy and good nature. It was quite evident he was earning a good name with the people of Edgecombe. Besides, he had much money to spend, and so good a customer was not to be offended. Not that the people of Edgecombe, storekeepers or others, were needlessly attentive. They were a sterling race of colonists, and had too often borne arms in defence of their lives and their homes from the raids of the Maoris to be in any way sycophantic. The greater number of them had perhaps farms of their own, and they consequently felt themselves to be quite as independent as the greatest runholder in the land. It was Charley's bonhommie that carried the day with them, and made them ready to serve him with so much willingness and pleasure. Besides, were they not acquainted with large owners of property in the neighborhood who haggled over the price of a cask of biscuits, or tried various stores to see where a chest of tea could be purchased most cheaply. Charley was sufficiently careful in his purchases but never mean, and the consequence was that he lost nothing by it in the end, for people took care to supply him with the best they had, even if it cost a little more. Be warned therefore, oh ye runholders, taking up new country. Never haggle in the neighboring townships over the price of a teapot. It doesn't pay. A little liberality goes a long way, besides it is expected from a great landowner. In Charley's case there was not a resident who had had business transactions with him who would not cheerfully have looked after his two bulls, or given him a paddock for his sheep, had he requested such a favor for the next month to come, or any other such accommodation free gratis and for nothing. But we have not described Edgecombe to our readers, and we had better do so.

(To be continued)