the story of a bad boy-第23部分

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The　inside　of　Sailor　Ben's　abode　was　not　less　striking　than　the　outside。　The　cottage　contained　two　rooms；　the　one　opening　on　the　wharf　he　called　his　cabin；　here　he　ate　and　slept。　His　few　tumblers　and　a　frugal　collection　of　crockery　were　set　in　a　rack　suspended　over　the　table；　which　had　a　cleat　of　wood　nailed　round　the　edge　to　prevent　the　dishes　from　sliding　off　in　case　of　a　heavy　sea。　Hanging　against　the　walls　were　three　or　four　highly　colored　prints　of　celebrated　frigates；　and　a　lithograph　picture　of　a　rosy　young　woman　insufficiently　clad　in　the　American　flag。　This　was　labelled　〃Kitty；〃　though　I'm　sure　it　looked　no　more　like　her　than　I　did。　A　walrus…tooth　with　an　Esquimaux　engraved　on　it；　a　shark's　jaw；　and　the　blade　of　a　sword…fish　were　among　the　enviable　decorations　of　this　apartment。　In　one　corner　stood　his　bunk；　or　bed；　and　in　the　other　his　well…worn　sea…chest；　a　perfect　Pandora's　box　of　mysteries。　You　would　have　thought　yourself　in　the　cabin　of　a　real　ship。

The　little　room　aft；　separated　from　the　cabin　by　a　sliding　door；　was　the　caboose。　It　held　a　cooking…stove；　pots；　pans；　and　groceries；　also　a　lot　of　fishing…lines　and　coils　of　tarred　twine；　which　made　the　place　smell　like　a　forecastle；　and　a　delightful　smell　it　is…to　those　who　fancy　it。

Kitty　didn't　leave　our　service；　but　played　housekeeper　for　both　establishments；　returning　at　night　to　Sailor　Ben's。　He　shortly　added　a　wherry　to　his　worldly　goods；　and　in　the　fishing　season　made　a　very　handsome　income。　During　the　winter　he　employed　himself　manufacturing　crab…nets；　for　which　he　found　no　lack　of　customers。

His　popularity　among　the　boys　was　immense。　A　jackknife　in　his　expert　hand　was　a　whole　chest　of　tools。　He　could　whittle　out　anything　from　a　wooden　chain　to　a　Chinese　pagoda；　or　a　full…rigged　seventy…four　a　foot　long。　To　own　a　ship　of　Sailor　Ben's　building　was　to　be　exalted　above　your　fellow…creatures。　He　didn't　carve　many；　and　those　he　refused　to　sell；　choosing　to　present　them　to　his　young　friends；　of　whom　Tom　Bailey；　you　may　be　sure；　was　one。

How　delightful　it　was　of　winter　nights　to　sit　in　his　cosey　cabin；　close　to　the　ship's　stove　（he　wouldn't　hear　of　having　a　fireplace）；　and　listen　to　Sailor　Ben's　yarns！　In　the　early　summer　twilights；　when　he　sat　on　the　door…step　splicing　a　rope　or　mending　a　net；　he　always　had　a　bevy　of　blooming　young　faces　alongside。

The　dear　old　fellow！　How　tenderly　the　years　touched　him　after　this…all　the　more　tenderly；　it　seemed；　for　having　roughed　him　so　cruelly　in　other　days！







Chapter　Seventeen

How　We　Astonished　the　Rivermouthians



Sailor　Ben's　arrival　partly　drove　the　New　Orleans　project　from　my　brain。　Besides；　there　was　just　then　a　certain　movement　on　foot　by　the　Centipede　Club　which　helped　to　engross　my　attention。

Pepper　Whitcomb　took　the　Captain's　veto　philosophically；　observing　that　he　thought　from　the　first　the　governor　wouldn't　let　me　go。　I　don't　think　Pepper　was　quite　honest　in　that。

But　to　the　subject　in　hand。

Among　the　few　changes　that　have　taken　place　in　Rivermouth　during　the　past　twenty　years　there　is　one　which　I　regret。　I　lament　the　removal　of　all　those　varnished　iron　cannon　which　used　to　do　duty　as　posts　at　the　corners　of　streets　leading　from　the　river。　They　were　quaintly　ornamental；　each　set　upon　end　with　a　solid　shot　soldered　into　its　mouth；　and　gave　to　that　part　of　the　town　a　picturesqueness　very　poorly　atoned　for　by　the　conventional　wooden　stakes　that　have　deposed　them。

These　guns　（〃old　sogers〃　the　boys　called　them）　had　their　story；　like　everything　else　in　Rivermouth。　When　that　everlasting　last　war…the　War　of　1812；　I　mean…came　to　an　end；　all　the　brigs；　schooners；　and　barks　fitted　out　at　this　port　as　privateers　were　as　eager　to　get　rid　of　their　useless　twelve…pounders　and　swivels　as　they　had　previously　been　to　obtain　them。　Many　of　the　pieces　had　cost　large　sums；　and　now　they　were　little　better　than　so　much　crude　iron…not　so　good；　in　fact；　for　they　were　clumsy　things　to　break　up　and　melt　over。　The　government　didn't　want　them；　private　citizens　didn't　want　them；　they　were　a　drug　in　the　market。

But　there　was　one　man；　ridiculous　beyond　his　generation；　who　got　it　into　his　head　that　a　fortune　was　to　be　made　out　of　these　same　guns。　To　buy　them　all；　to　hold　on　to　them　until　war　was　declared　again　（as　he　had　no　doubt　it　would　be　in　a　few　months）；　and　then　sell　out　at　fabulous　prices…this　was　the　daring　idea　that　addled　the　pate　of　Silas　Trefethen；　〃Dealer　in　E。　&　W。　I。　Goods　and　Groceries；〃　as　the　faded　sign　over　his　shop…door　informed　the　public。

Silas　went　shrewdly　to　work；　buying　up　every　old　cannon　he　could　lay　hands　on。　His　back…yard　was　soon　crowded　with　broken…down　gun…carriages；　and　his　barn　with　guns；　like　an　arsenal。　When　Silas's　purpose　got　wind　it　was　astonishing　how　valuable　that　thing　became　which　just　now　was　worth　nothing　at　all。

〃Ha；　ha！〃　thought　Silas。　〃Somebody　else　is　tryin'　hi　git　control　of　the　market。　But　I　guess　I've　got　the　start　of　him。〃

So　he　went　on　buying　and　buying；　oftentimes　paying　double　the　original　price　of　the　article。　People　in　the　neighboring　towns　collected　all　the　worthless　ordnance　they　could　find；　and　sent　it　by　the　cart…load　to　Rivermouth。

When　his　barn　was　full；　Silas　began　piling　the　rubbish　in　his　cellar；　then　in　his　parlor。　He　mortgaged　the　stock　of　his　grocery　store；　mortgaged　his　house；　his　barn；　his　horse；　and　would　have　mortgaged　himself；　if　anyone　would　have　taken　him　as　security；　in　order　to　carry　on　the　grand　speculation。　He　was　a　ruined　man；　and　as　happy　as　a　lark。

Surely　poor　Silas　was　cracked；　like　the　majority　of　his　own　cannon。　More　or　less　crazy　he　must　have　been　always。　Years　before　this　he　purchased　an　elegant　rosewood　coffin；　and　kept　it　in　one　of　the　spare　rooms　in　his　residence。　He　even　had　his　name　engraved　on　the　silver…plate；　leaving　a　blank　after　the　word　〃Died。〃

The　blank　was　filled　up　in　due　time；　and　well　it　was　for　Silas　that　he　secured　so　stylish　a　coffin　in　his　opulent　days；　for　when　he　died　his　worldly　wealth　would　not　have　bought　him　a　pine　box；　to　say　nothing　of　rosewood。　He　never　gave　up　expecting　a　war　with　Great　Britain。　Hopeful　and　radiant　to　the　last；　his　dying　words　were；　England…war　…　few　days…great　profits！

It　was　that　sweet　old　lady；　Dame　Jocelyn；　who　told　me　the　story　of　Silas　Trefethen；　for　these　things　happened　long　before　my　day。　Silas　died　in　1817。

At　Trefethen's　death　his　unique　collection　came　under　the　auctioneer's　hammer。　Some　of　the　larger　guns　were　sold　to　the　town；　and　planted　at　the　corners　of　divers　streets；　others　went　off　to　the　iron…foundry；　the　balance；　numbering　twelve；　were　dumped　down　on　a　deserted　wharf　at　the　foot　of　Anchor　Lane；　where；　summer　after　summer；　they　rested　at　their　ease　in　the　grass　and　fungi；　pelted　in　autumn　by　the　rain　and　annually　buried　by　the　winter　snow。　It　is　with　these　twelve　guns　that　our　story　has　to　deal。

The　wharf　where　they　reposed　was　shut　off　from　the　street　by　a　high　fence…a　silent　dreamy　old　wharf；　covered　with　strange　weeds　and　mosses。　On　account　of　its　seclusion　and　the　good　fishing　it　afforded；　it　was　much　frequented　by　us　boys。

There　we　met　many　an　afternoon　to　throw　out　。our　lines；　or　play　leap…frog　among　the　rusty　cannon。　They　were　famous　fellows　in　our　eyes。　What　a　racket　they　had　made　in　the　heyday　of　their　unchastened　youth！　What　stories　they　might　tell　now；　if　their　puffy　metallic　lips　could　only　speak！　Once　they　were　lively　talkers　enough；　but　there　the　grim　sea…dogs　lay；　silent　and　forlorn　in　spite　of　all　their　former　growlings。

They　always　seemed　to　me　like　a　lot　of　venerable　disabled　tars；　stretched　out　on　a　lawn　in　front　of　a　hospital；　gazing　seaward；　and　mutely　lamenting　their　lost　youth。

But　once　more　they　were　destined　to　lift　up　their　dolorous　voices…once　more　ere　they　keeled　over　and　lay　speechless　for　all　time。　And　this　is　how　it　befell。

Jack　Harris；　Charley　Marden；　Harry　Blake；　and　myself　were　fishing　off　the　wharf　one　afternoon；　when　a　thought　flashed　upon　me　like　an　inspiration。

〃I　say；　boys！〃　I　cried；　hauling　in　my　line　hand　over　hand；　〃I've　got　something！〃

〃What　does　it　pull　like；　youngster？〃　asked　Harris；　looking　down　at　the　taut　line　and　expecting　to　see　a　big　perch　at　least。

〃O；　nothing　in　the　fish　way；〃　I　returned；　laughing；　〃it's　about　the　old　guns。〃

〃What　about　them？〃

〃I　was　thinking　what　jolly　fun　it　would　be　to　set　one　of　the　old　sogers　on　his　legs　and　serve　him　out　a　ration　of　gunpowder。〃

Up　came　the　three　lines　in　a　jiffy。　An　enterprise　better　suited　to　the　disposition　of　my　companions　could　not　have　been　proposed。

In　a　short　time　we　had　one　of　the　smaller　cannon　over　on　its　back　and　were　busy　scraping　the　green　rust　from　the　touch…hole。　The　mould　had　spiked　the　gun　so　effectually；　that　for　a　while　we　fancied　we　should　have　to　give　up　our　attempt　to　resuscitate　the　old　soger。

〃A　long　gimlet　would　clear　it　out；〃　said　Charley　Marden；　〃if　we　only　had　one。〃

I　looked　to　see　if　Sailor　Ben's　flag　was　flying　at　the　cabin　door；　for　he　always　took　in　the　colors　when　he　went　off　fishing。

〃When　you　want　to　know　if　the　Admiral's　aboard；　jest　cast　an　eye　to　the　buntin'；　my　hearties；〃　says　Sailor　Ben。

Sometimes　in　a　jocose　mood　he　called　himself　the　Admiral；　and　I　am　sure　he　deserved　to　be　one。　The　Admiral's　flag　was　flying；　and　I　soon　procured　a　gimlet　from　his　carefully　kept　tool…chest。

Before　long　we　had　the　gun　in　working　order。　A　newspaper　lashed　to　the　end　of　a　lath　served　as　a　swab　to　dust　out　the　bore。　Jack　Harris　blew　through　the　touch…hole　and　pronounced　all　clear。

Seeing　our　task　accomplished　so　easily；　we　turned　our　attention　to　the　other　guns；　which　lay　in　all　sorts　of　postures　in　the　rank　grass。　Borrowing　a　rope　from　Sailor　Ben；　we　managed　with　immense　labor　to　drag　the　heavy　pieces　into　position　and　place　a　brick　under　each　muzzle　to　give　it　the　proper　elevation。　When　we　beheld　them　all　in　a　row；　like　a　regular　battery；　we　simultaneously　conceived　an　idea；　the　magnitude　of　which　struck　us　dumb　for　a　moment。

Our　first　intention　was　to　load　and　fire　a　single　gun。　How　feeble　and　insignificant　was　such　a　plan　compared　to　that　which　now　sent　the　light　dancing　into　our　eyes！

〃What　could　we　have　been　thinking　of？〃　cried　Jack　Harris。　〃We'll　give　'em　a