BLUE—PETER.

New Zealand Times, Volume LXXI, Issue 4354, 11 May 1901, Page 2 (Supplement)

BLUE—PETER.

(!5v .Tunn Oxenham, in “Chambers’s Journal.”)

lie was the fir>t mail I snoko to in Stonecrop-oii-Sea, with the exception of .lie ticket collector at tho station, of whom I inquired the shortest way to the front, and who directed me wrong. I found the sea at last, and five minutes’ contemplation of its high-piled banks of shingle-—miles and miles of them —satisfied me that the place was rightly named, nuct that sand was probably unknown there. However, the air was wonderful I v pure and bracing, and the man who condemns a place on five minutes’ acquaintance lacks prudence. So I wandered along the shingle ami filled myself with ozone, and in spite of -its sternness tho place began to grow upon me. Besides, it was High tide, and there might, after all, be sand enough, when the water went dawn, to satisfy the demands of my youngsters. /.long tho top of the shingly beach stood a row of quaint little wooden houses, some all tarry black', some ail dazzling white paint, noliung between — till you looked inside, when all' the coinurs of the rainoow bmst upon you, and some besid is.

[ stood admiring a tiny. Peggotylooking hutch, composed of an overturned hunt, which formed the roof, while the sides- looked as if the bul--11 arks had sprouted unnaturally downwards till they readied the ground »Jft below. Next to it stood one of tho d -"ling-white houses, distinguished f ; ,ts neighbours by. a. flagstaff rising c. A the front ruble, and on the flagstaff a. Union Jack, with a Blue Peter floating above it. Tn the doorway sat a very fine-looking old sailorman in a hammock chair, lie caught ray o.yo. “Mornin’, sir.” he said, with a friendly nod. “Rummy little concern—ain’t it?’’ “Ever hoard of David Coppcrficld P” I asked. “’Bout sick of bearin’ his name. That ain’t Ids house, an’ you’re tho sixth that’s askod me ’bout him this morniu’.” “I’m sorry. Supnoao we consider tha question not asked. Will you have a cigar? I want to_ know if you over got: any sand Hero?” and I sat down in an adjacent hammock chair. “Sand!” ho said, with a. fine contempt, as he lit up. “What would ye want with sand? If them stones was sand this house wouldn’t bo hero, an’ thorn houses” —nodding across the Parade and strip of common—“wouldn’t be there, an’ there wouldn’t be any Stonecrap. We don’t want no sand. ’T on’y muddies tho water, anyway. Gi’o me nice, clean, round stones.’’ “A bit of sand is nice for tho youngsters to paddlo in,” I suggested. “Lot ’em paddlo on tho stones,” he growled. “Take no harm, with a pair of old shoes on.” “But they can’t dig stones.” ‘Tss they can, an’ make a heap more noiso in a bucket than sand will. Hear that!” as a youngster down below raised pandemonium with a tin bucket and an iron spade. “Come down to get rooms?” ho. asked. “Well, I came to look at the place, and see if there was any sand. I don’t know that I’ll stop yet.” “Fine air.” he said. “Ye don’t got air like this where ye get sand. Ye can’t get everything, ye know—not this side heaven, anyways. “Yes, the air’s all right. If you could just dump me down about a thousand tons of sand along there ”

“Not me. Nasty blowin’ stuff; gets in your eyes an’ fills up your ears. ’Sides them waves ’ud scour it all away in a night. Pote!” he called tlo a young man who strolled’ up just then from a boat he had been varnishing, “this gen’leman wants you dump him down a thousand tons o’ sand on the beach.” And the old man .gurgled merrily.

“What for?” asked Pete. _ He was a good-looking young follow, with the finest red-brown skin I ever saw, and ginger-coloured hair and moustache. “For the children to paddle in.” “Well, if th’ Council would do it I wouldn’t mind,” said Pete. “An’ you’re a Stonecrap man!” roared the elder. “I’m s’nrised at’e. Pete. Ye ought t’know better.” Before Pete could justify himself beyond a humorous wink at me, a very comely young woman carrying a baby came across the Green and over the shingle, and stood before us. “Aren’t you an’ Pete coming to dinner, gran’ther? Thought you must ha’ forgotten it or gone to sleep again ” “Not a bit, Moll. Now”—to me—“there’s a boy for ’e. Think a child like that could ha’ bin reared on sand? Not much.” “Ho certainly looks as if he’d had something better than sand,” I said with a smile. “Sand!” said the young mother, looking down on us with womanly contempt. “What are you talkin’ about? Who ever heard of rearin’ children on sand ?” At which the old boy slapped his leg and laughed heartily. “Your grandson?” I asked. “First grandchild,, fifteenth descendant,” ho answered proudly. “Fourteen o’ my own I’ve brought up, an ’on stones, too!” with an air of triumph. Ho got up and locked tho door of tho little house with an apologetic reference to boys, and I got up also, and went into the town, for lunch. Tho place continued to grow upon me in spito of its lack of sand. There were many other things to interest the children. Numbers of soldiers, bugles blowing all over tho place, a nier and a band, donkeys, goats, an dthj.t keen salt air which which braced one like a tonic. I decided to look for rooms. There were tickets in heaps of the windows offering furnished apartments, and' i i seemed to ho only a case of picking and choosing. As I strolled along the houses on the front for the purpose of finding the least frowsy-looking, I came across my old man again, and he greeted mo—- “ Well, sir, goin’ to stop?” “Yes. I think I shall.” “That’s right. Found any rooms yet'r 4 ' “Not yet; but there seems plentv of them.” , “That’s You might waste a week goin’ ruSnd among ’em, an’ find none for time ye want.” ./ “Perhaps you could recommend me to some ?” \ “Not me. I’ recommended a gent once to a house what I’d heard well spoke of. and I never heard the last of it. If his dinner weren’t to his likin’ ho told me of it, an *if he couldn’t sleep at night he put it down to me. Since that I minds my own business. But if yon takes my advice you’ll just go to Air Jinks along there where that cart is. He’ll give vou a list.” So I went along to Mr Jinks, and got a list; and as I came out witli it in my hand the old man spied mo, and came hurrying across the common.

“Who’s he give you?” ho asked, and I showed him the list.

“Yes,” he said, reading it slowly. “That’s all right. Miss Russell—stairs is a bit narrow for some folks, but cooking’s all right. Mrs Tame’s —’urn they do say.— well, you can see for yourself. Mrs Jones — she might do; but it’s yon’s going to stop there, not me;” and so on all tlrrough the list. Ho seemed to know tho characteristics of every house and

its inmates, and had a discriminating word for each. His comments were not ill-natured, but eminently pointed, and there was no house on my list but had its soft spot on whioh he laid his finger. When I had trodden tho devious path of him who seeks apartments, and loaded my soul with unfulfilled promises to return, with mental reservations in favour of anything that suited me better, I found myself once more alongside “grau’ther’s” little wooden house on the beach, and gladly sat me down in one of his chairs. ‘■Suited ?” bo asked. “Yes: I have taken rooms at Mrs Tame’s.” “Ah. that’s ail right! Mrs. Tame’s clean housa an’ a very decent woman, about the best you had on the list. Nice and not bad at the cookin’. You’ll be all right there. You take my card, an’ if you want any boats, or any fishin,’ or sea water, or anytmn’, don’t von forget Peter Coorabe, sir.” I promised not to forget, and handed him my pouch, and he filled his pipe' from it, and we sat and chatted discursively. “How did that happen?” I asked, nodding'-towards the funnel and spars of a steamer which stuck disconsolately out of the water about half a mile from tho shore, with a green lightship moored alongside them. “American liner—got on tbo rocks in spring—salvage people floated her offbottom came out—now they’re blowing her up bit by bit to get rid of her.” ***** Fourteen days later 1 was back in Stoneor.op with my wife and youngsters, and alter tea -I took them along the beach to visit old Peter Coombc. The door of the little wooden house was wide open. Unwonted chaos reigned within, and there was no display of bunting at the masthead, and tho old man was not there.

“Is it Blue Peter you was wantin’?” asked a neighbour. “You’ll find him down by tho sea, sir;” and wo went on over tho ridge, and saw the old man standing in the dip, where the waves came roaring up tho sliinglo to his feet. He gave up hoed to them, oven when they washed over his shoe-tops. “Hullo, Peter!” I cried, as we came up behind him, whero he stood looking intently out over the sea. “Looking for fish? How are yon, and holy’s Pete and tho baby f” He turned and looked at me, and his look staggered me. The fine old face was pitifully drawn and sunken. His eyes, deep under their bushy eaves, were woefully sad. His sturdy figure was bent and shrunken. He said nothing, but turned again and looked out over the sea. I saw that something was wrong, that some terrible thing had happened, of whicii I know nothing. I sot the children on a reconnaissance along the shore, and went up tho shingle to tho little white house, and routed out a chair from tho - disorder, and sat down in it to wait till tho old man should come up.

“What’s wrong?”, I asked of tho neighbour, and ho lounged over, with his hands in his trousers pockets. “Mean t’say ye ’aren’t heard?” he asked.

"No; I’ve heard nothing. What is it?”

“His boy Pete went out th’ other evenin’ oout a week ago with three strangers t’go to wreck there; and there came a flurry like o’ which no one ever seen round this part, an’ boat went over, an’ they went under, an’ so far on’y twoi of 'em’s come ashore, an’ Pete wasn’t one of/’em. Th’ old man’s all broke up, an’ spends all his time awatchin’ for it. Thinks th’ explosions inoy raise it. It’s hard on ’im, fur he set great store on th© boy.” “That’s terrible,” I said. “’Tis rough on th’ old chap,” said the neighbour, and turned his quid into the other cheek and spat at a distant stone. It was difficult to obtrude on such a grief as this, yet I could not leave without another word with the old man. He did not come, so at last I went over the shingle to the place where we had left him. Ho was still gazing grimly seawards, and I went quietly up to him and slipped my hand through his arm. “I had nob heard, Peter/’ I said. “I am very, very sorry, r Such a fine, bright lad he was." He just glanced out ■of the corner of his eye at the feel of my hand, with, out loosing his gaze from the sea. “Ay, a fine lad,” he said,’ heavily, “an’ a good lad. I wish he’d come in. I dun’t like to think o' 'm tossin’ about out This disjointedly, as if speaking were a burden almost beyond him. “And his wife ?”_ I said. The gloom on his face deepened, but he said nothing. I sat down on the 1 steep slope of shingle, and presently ho sat heavily down beside me. I lit a cigar and tendered him one. He lit it, but after a few puffs he threw it away. ‘"Tain’t got no taste,” he said; “nothen has now.” Beyond sitting beside him in silence I made no attempt to comfort him. A grief so deep was beyond any man’s crude consolation. Next day when we wont to the beach it was evident that something unusual was to the fore. The ’longshoremen and visitors were in great force, and all gazing seaward. I asked what was happening, told the salvage men at work on the wreck had for some days past been laying an unusually heavy charge, and that the explosion was momentarily expected. So we took front seats on the shingle, and glued our eves to the wreck. Below us, with the surge hissing ■at oqr feet, stood old Peter Coombe on his watch, with never a look or thought for the crowds behind him.

There was a sudden buzz all along the line, and' a huge tumulus of water spouted up like a fairv fountain, sparkling and flashing in the sunshine. The funnel and one mast of the steamer reeled and fell, and the dull roar of the explosion reached us and went .bellowing up the downs behind. The show was over, and the crowds' scattered. A sudden idea took me to view the result of the blast on the spot. With Peter not five yards away, I could not do less than offer him the job. I was glad to do so, for I was sure he bad paid no heed to business since his trouble came. I went down to him and said, “We want to go out to the wreck, Peter. Will you take us?” He shook Iris head, and the changed his mind suddenly, and said, “Ay, ay, sir; PH take ye.” His neighbour took his hands out of his trousers pockets long enough to assist us down with the boat. I jumped the children in. The neighbour gave us a friendly shove through the surf, and then Peter ran up his lug, and we skimmed merrily over the sunlit waves towards the single spar and the ragged points of the steamer’s ribs, which just showed above the water.

Wo could not get as close as I should have liked, because of the dangerous swirl the wreck itself created; but_we got close enough to carry away an impression \of most forlorn desolation, of bare ribs and gaunt iron girders, warped and twistea with the sagging of the huge iron bulk and 'the various explosions ; and the sunny waves dancing in among them and patting them gently as a tiger pats and plays with its prey.

Then wo ran down to the green lightship lor a few minutes’ chat with tho divers and salvage men, and then turned home.

We had run about half tho distance, when old Peter startled us all by jumping up suddenly with an exclamation—the first word he had spoken since we started. He stood straining eagerly ahead and slightly to leeward.. “What is it, Peter?’ i asked.

He slackened off the sheet with shaking hands, and turned the boat’s nose towards a dark object floating in the water now right ahead. 1 guessed what it might be, and regretted having brought tho children.

“Lie down!” I ordered them; “and whoever looks up till I tell them to gets no pocket-money this week;” and they were prone in a moment. Peter, with a face like a grim bronze, slacked off still more, and eamo round with a sweep, and threw Hie boat tip into tho wind; and that dark thing in the water came bobbing leisurely down upon us with wind and tide, as if time were no longer a matter of the slightest consequence to it. I held the rudder while he bent over to it, and I hoard him groan. I tried my best not to see, for this was one of those dreadful tilings no man need desire to look upon; but I could not wholly escape it. I saw Peter fumbling with it. He breathed short, and each breath was a smothered groan. 1 suppose ho turned it over to look at the face, and found —well, it had been a week in the water. Then, stiil bending over the side and holding it with one hand, he pointed with tho other to a coil of rope in the hows. I stumbled over the thwarts, and gave it to him, and presently ho camo inboard again with a great sigh, and turned the boat towards the shore, and his poor old face was white and sick-looking under its sixty years’ tan.

Wo had boon observed from tho shore. There were always plenty of glasses at work there, and they saw what we wore at. A largo crowd was awaiting us, and word had already flown round to old Peter’s house that young Pete’s body was coming ashore, so exceedingly anxious is human nature to communicate ill tidings, even before it is quite sure of its facts. The first person I saw as I jumped the children out of tho boat and hado them run homo was young Mrs Pete, with her eyes straining fearfully out of the hollows in her white face.

Rough hands, suddenly endued with gentleness, drew the poor body ashore, and laid it tenderly on the wet round stones, xney were all crowding round it, when there came a startled shout from tho fringe of the crowd, and I saw a blue-clad form springing through it, and hurling it right and left'. Then came a scream of frantic joy from the core of it, and I pushed through in time to see young Pete hugging his wife so tightly to him that all tho life' in her seemed squeezed up into her blazing face and eves. And I saw the old man, dear old Blue Peter, drop heavily on his knees on the wet stones, and heard his fervent “Praise the Lord!” And theso are things lam not going to forget. It was very simple. When that wild flurry struck them without a moment’s warning young Pete grabbed! instinctively for an oar. Then something hit him on the head, and ho remembered nothing more till he found himself in a hunk on a French warship, which eventually landed hinx-in Brest. Thence, witli consular assistance, he had made his way home as rapidly as he could. Why did he not telegraph to his friends to tell them of his safety? Well, simply because he didn’t, You or I would have done so the verv first thing. Young Pete’s one and only idea was to get home at the first possible moment, and he had come as quickly as he could. Young Pete and his , wife were shaking a dozen hands at once, and tho old man crunched sturdily up the shingle, and went along to his little wooden house, and got out his flags—a whole string of them, with tho Blue Peter on top—and ran them up with a jerk, and tied tho rope tight round the cleat; and then the three Blue Peters went away homo across the Green—young Blue Peter in the middle, with old Blue Peter on one side, and young Mrs Blue Peter on the other, holding him tight by the arms as though to make sure that ho would never leave them again.