Gordon Stables - The Island of Gold - A Sailor's Yarn

“O Eedie!” cried Miss Scragley, “why, I’ve found a child!”

“Oh, the wee darling!” exclaimed Eedie; “mayn’t I kiss it, auntie?”

“If you kissed it,” said the lady, as if she knew all about babies and could write a book about them – “if you kissed it, dear, it would awake, and the creature’s yells would resound through the dark depths of the forest.”

“But there is no one near,” she continued; “it must be deserted by its unfeeling parents, and left here to perish.”

She went a little nearer now and looked down on the sleeping child’s face.

A very pretty face it was, the rosy lips parted, the flush of sleep upon her face; and one wee chubby hand and arm was lying bare on the shawl.

“Oh dear!” cried Miss Scragley, “I feel strangely agitated. I cannot let the tiny angel perish in the silvan gloom. I must — you must, Eedie – well, we must, dear, carry it home with us.”

“Oh, will ye, though?” The voice was close behind her. “Just you leave Babs alone, and attend to yer own bizness, else Bob will have somethin’ till say to ye.”

Miss Scragley started, as well she might.

“Oh,” she cried, looking round now, “an absurd little gipsy boy!”

“ Yes ,” said Ransey Tansey, touching his forelock, “and I’m sorry for bein’ so absurd. And ashamed all-so. If a rabbit’s hole was handy, I’d soon pop in. But, bless yer beautiful ladyship, if I’d known I was to ’ave the perleasure o’ meetin’ quality, I’d ’ave put on my dress soot, and carried my crush hat under my arm.

“Don’t be afeard, mum,” he continued, as the crane came hopping out of the bush. “That’s only just the Admiral; and this is Bob, as would die for me or Babs.”

“And who is Babs, you droll boy?”

“Babs is my baby, and no one else’s ’cept Bob’s. And Bob and I would make it warm for anybody as tried to take Babs away. Wouldn’t us, Bob?”

Just then his little sister awoke, all smiles and dimples as usual.

Ransey Tansey went to talk to her, and for a time the boy forgot all the world except Babs.

“I’se glad ’oo’s tome back, ’Ansey. Has I been afeep (asleep), ’Ansey?”

“Oh, yes; and now I’m goin’ to feed Babs, and Babs’ll lie and look at the trees till I cook dinner for Bob and me.”

“That wady (lady) won’t take Babs away, ’Ansey?”

“No, Babs, no.”

Ransey Tansey fed Babs once more from the pickle bottle with the horn spoon, much to Miss Scragley’s and little Eedie’s astonishment and delight.

Then he commenced to build a fire at a little distance, and laid out some fish all ready to cook as soon as the blazing wood should die down to red embers.

“You’re a very interesting boy,” said Miss Scragley politely. “May I look on while you cook?”

“Oh, yes, mum. Sorry I ain’t got a chair to offer ye.”

“And oh, please, interesting boy,” begged Eedie, “may I talk to Babs?”

“Cer – tain – lee, pretty missie. – Babsie, sweet,” he added, “talk to this beautiful young lady.”

“There’s no charge for sittin’ on the grass, mum,” said Ransey the next minute.

And down sat Miss Scragley smiling.

The boy proceeded with the preparation of the meal in real gipsy fashion. He cooked fish, and he roasted potatoes. He hadn’t forgotten the salt either, nor a modicum of butter in a piece of paper, nor bread; and as he and Bob made a hearty dinner, he gave every now and then the sweetest of tit-bits to Babs.

Eedie and the child got on beautifully together.

“May I ask you a question or two, you most interesting boy?” said Miss Scragley.

“Oh, yes, if ye’re quite sure ye ain’t the gamekeeper’s wife. The keeper turned me out of the wood once. Bob warn’t there that day.”

“Well, I’m sure I’m not the gamekeeper’s wife. I am Miss Scragley of Scragley Hall.”

The boy was wiping his fingers and his knife with some moss.

“I wish I had a cap on,” he said.

“Why, dear?”

“So as I could take her off and make a bow,” he explained.

“And what is your name, curious boy?”

“Ransey; that’s my front name.”

“But your family name?”

“Ain’t got ne’er a family, ’cepting Babs.”

“But you have a surname – another name, you know.”

“Ransey Tansey all complete. There.”

“And where do you live, my lad?”

“Me and Babs and Bob and Murrams all lives, when we’re to home, at Hangman’s Hall; and father lives there, too, when ’ee’s to home; and the Admiral, yonder, he roosts in the gibbet-tree.”

“And what does father do?”

“Oh, father’s a capting.”

“A captain, dear boy?”

“No, he’s not a boy, but a man, and capting of the Merry Maiden , a canal barge, mum. An’ we all goes to sea sometimes together, ’cepting Murrams, our pussy, and the Admiral. We have such fun; and I ride Jim the canal hoss, and Babs laughs nearly all the time.”

“So you’re very happy all of you, and always were?”

“Oh, yes – ’cepting when father sometimes took too much rum; but that’s a hundred years ago, more or less, mum.”

“Poor lad! Have you a mother?”

“Oh, yes, we has a mother, but only she’s gone dead. The parson said she’d gone to heaven; but I don’t know, you know. Wish she’d come back, though,” he added with a sigh.

“I’m so sorry,” said Miss Scragley, patting his hand.

“Oh, don’t ye do that, mum, and don’t talk kind to me, else I’ll cry. I feels the tears a-comin’ now. Nobody ever, ever talks kindly to me and Babs when at home, ’cepting father, in course, ’cause we’re on’y common canal folks and outcasts from serciety.”

Ransey Tansey was very earnest. Miss Scragley had really a kind heart of her own, only she couldn’t help smiling at the boy’s language.

“Who told you so?”

“W’y, the man as opens the pews.”

“Oh, you’ve been to church, then?”

“Oh, yes; went the other Sunday. Had nuthin’ better to do, and thought I’d give Babs a treat.”

“And did you go in those – clothes?”

“Well, mum, I couldn’t go with nuthin’ on – could I, now? An’ the pew-man just turned us both out. But Babs was so good, and didn’t cry a bit till she got out. Then I took her away through the woods to hear the birds sing; and mebbe God was there too, ’cause mother said He was everywhere.”

“Yes, boy, God is everywhere. And where does your mother sleep, Ransey?”

“Sleep? Oh, in heaven. Leastways I s’pose so.”

“I mean, where was your gentle mother buried?”

“Oh, at sea, mum. Sailor’s grave, ye know.”

Ransey looked very sad just then.

“You don’t mean in the canal, surely?”

“Yes, mum. Father wouldn’t have it no other way. I can’t forget; ’tain’t much more’n a year ago, though it looks like ten. Father, ye know, ’ad been a long time in furrin parts afore he was capting o’ the Merry Maiden .”

The lad had thrown himself down on the grass at a respectable distance from Miss Scragley, and his big blue, eyes grew bigger and sadder as he continued his story.

“’Twere jest like this, mum. Mother’d been bad for weeks and so quiet like, and father so kind, ’cause he didn’t never touch no rum when mother was sick. We was canal-ing most o’ the time; and one night we stopped at the ‘Bargee’s Chorus’ – only a little public-house, mum, as perhaps you wouldn’t hardly care to be seen drinkin’ at. We stopped here ’cause mother was wuss, and old dad sent for a doctor; and I put Jim into the meadow. Soon’s the doctor saw poor mother, he sez, sez he, ‘Ye’d better get the parson. No,’ he sez, ‘I won’t charge ye nuthin’ for attendance; it’s on’y jest her soul as wants seein’ to now.’