THE SEVEN BELLS.

Feilding Star, Volume XV, Issue 79, 30 September 1893, Page 6 (Supplement)

THE SEVEN BELLS.

"Every now and then in overhauling literature I see where the old gophers are still letting off loud howls which make me weary." It was Mr. Tokenß, the marine, who •thus complained of the gophers and th«ir conduct in literature as he stowed his timber leg under the mess table and brought his hairy fist down on the same with a thump that made the dishes dance. The old gentleman looked weary, a condition the skipper remarked and which cause Mr. Skate, A. 8.. to wish he were only half as tired. The Seven Bells club was in executive session in the cabin of the Anchor chophouse, with Mr. Tokens in the chair. He had evidently been reading something which did not agree with him. It was seldom anything did meet his views, unless it were an invitation to drink, and then lie only consented with apparent reluctance. No one, not even the inquisitive lubber, Willie Bloke, ventured a query regarding the old gophers until after the skipper had ordered a lwttle of red wine with which to raft the rib steaks homo. Then the recognized head of the organization addressed Mr. Tokens: "So the gophers are at it again?" he hazarded, though he had not the remotest idea of what the marine was driving at. "They are always at it, howling through the long and the dog watches and making all hands sick. If they didn't have the boots or the bug juice, why didn't they give an order on the nearest store and let us have peace?" As Mr. Tokens delivered himself of this remarkable statement the club exchanged uneasy glances, and Willie Bloke grew pale. "Give him some seltzer or something." he whispered to the skipper. "May I ask you, sir, what kind of literature you have been overhauling?" the skipper gently inquired, paying no heed to the lubber's agitation. "The early logs of different stateshistory, I believe they call it, which is full of old gophers who could have bought the lot where the courthouse now stands for a pair of boots, or got a quit claim deed to the after end of Kansas for a pint of whisky. But they didn't have the boots or the liquor, so they keep on howling." "He's all right," whispered the skipper, greatly relieved. "I've heard these howls myself." "They are driving express wagons now or loafing around in groceries," Mr. Tokens went on, "blowing their lungs out telling how rich they would be if things had been different. That's what niake» me weary. It isn't the chances a man has in life, but the way he hooks on and uses his head and steering gear. You never heard me growling about the hard luck that left me stranded in my old age." "Have you had some narrow escapes?" asked the lubber. "Escapes from what?" "Being wealthy." "Well, I should say I have. Boots, moldly blankets and beverages are nowhere, but it wasn't my fault. A lunk headed, chuckle brained, tar tainted, ignorant seaman blasted my hopes in life." And Mr. Tokens broke forth into a torrent of picturesque blasphemy that would have exhausted a pirate's repertory. "These here remarks about ignorant able seamen is a swipe at me, I take it," said Mr. Skate, rising and waving hia fists in the air. "Don't get choppy," cautioned the skipper as he dragged Mr. Skate back into his chair. "Let the man spin. You ain't the only able seaman alive." Apologies followed, and then the marine squared away on the course suggested by the old gophers in literature. "A shipwreck that left me to starve on a desert island would have made my pile, but for this bull headed able seaman. He's dead now and out of the way. but my sailing days are over since I got this leg." Here Mr. Tokens pounded the leg on the floor aud did a little more ornamental swearing. *'We were bound from Liverpool to Australia with general cargo when an equinoxial gale ripped the canvas off us and drove the ship ashore. The ship grounded in the night on Sydney island in the South sea, one of the Phcenix group, located in longitude 171 degrees 22 minutes west, latitude 25 degrees south, and all hands perished but me and one able seaman. When, daylight came, we found ourselves on a desolate lagoon island lying low on the horizon aud leagues away from the track nf navigation. The hull of the vessel, which was an iron one, was piled up on the beach witi bales, barrels and boxes of cargo tha . came ashore with the wreck.

"There was plenty to eat and drink, but the seaman wanted to lay right down and die. I kicked him a couple of times, but he still wanted to die, so I set off to explore the island. The ship's boats were all gone, and I knew we were doomed so far as rescue was concerned, but I never let on to the seaman. It didn't take me long to make the circuit of the island, and I found something that gave* me an idea, and a good«#he too." At this point Mr. Tokens was again overcome. He smote himself on the brow and cursed the memory of the able seaman who had blighted his life. A drink, however, restored him, and he started in ag&in. "Where was I at?" he asked. "You had just made a discovery," . replied the club, deeply interested. "About 100 yards from the wreck and close to the beach I stumbled on to a sperm whale aground on his stomach in a dry gully with his head out to sea. He was partly buried in the sand washed up by the gale." "Was the whale dead?" Willie Bloke inquired. "Of course he was. Do you suppose he would be cruising inland if he wasn't? He had a harpoon in his ribs, which I reckon killed him before the storm threw him up on the island. Going back to the seaman and giving him a few more kicks — rapid ones they were — I told him we Vere saved. " "How so?' he says. " "Ask no questions,' said I, 'but turn to and help.' He braced np, and we unshipped the main topgallant yard from the wreck. This was a hollow iron spar about 40 feet long with a wooden plug in each end. We pulled the plugs out and then went to overhauling the cargo. Luck was with me, and I soon found what I wanted. This was a lot of bales of loose cotton packing in long strands the size of a man's thumb. We stretched this out in the sun, and when it got dry me and the able seaman plaited a long wick to fit the iron spar. Then we rove it through, with about 10 fathoms to spare, and planted the spar in the whale's blowhole, wnth the extra wick floating around in the spermaceti inside of his head. I reckon the whale had about 20 barrels of fine oil in his brain locker. We guyed the spar with small wire cables, and then I made the seaman shin up and touch her off." "Did it burn?" the skipper gravely inquired. "You have seen a tar barrel afire, I reckon. Well, that is a tallow dip compared to my lighthouse. She loomed up like a torchlight procession on end. The able seaman said 1 should have been an admiral and wanted to kiss my hand, but I set him to work with a shovel burying the whale. It was hot weather, and I wanted to keep the oil cool. By working all night we got the whale under cover, caving in the soft sides of the gully and then banked the base of the spar with rocks. "In the morning I concluded to douse the lamp because it was a big waste of oil and did no good in daylight. So I sent the seaman aloft with a tin pail to snuff the wick, but the blooming spar was so hot he couldn't get more than half way up. There was nothing to do but loaf around and let her burn. "For nearly three weeks she blazed, lighting up the sea for miles around. The light attracted birds of all kinds, but no ships. It kept us busy daytimes dragging away the fowls that flew into the flame at night, and the smell of burning feathers nearly drove us off the islam anyhow. At last a trading schoouer raised our beacon light, put in, and we were saved. The captain was struck with my lighthouse and wanted to know how I kept her going. "Oh, that's an oil well we discovered, I said, giving the able seaman a kick. "So," said the captain, "and who owns the island?" "We do," I said, and so did the able seaman l>efore I could kick him again. "Do yon want to sell out?" he asked. "To be sure, if you've got the figure," I said. "How much?" "Forty thousand dollars in cash money." "Done," said the captain. "Come aboard the schooner and get the money." Once more Mr. Tokens filled up and was about to founder, but the skipper rescued him with a pull at the bottle. Then he fetched a sigh that sounded like the wind whistling through a cemetery as the wreck -»f ruined hopes floated out of the past. "Dad bing his onery picture, but that able seaman was low and ignorant! Ho wasn't rigged for business, but got frothy all at once and said he wanted a plug of eating tobacco to boot on the $40,000 hefore he left the island. You see, he thought he was smart like me and wanted to sail a sharp bargain, but the captain was pretty close hauled on a deal himself. I kicked the seaman some more and promised him two plugt* when wo got to San Francisco, but ho said he was no flying fish, and that wealth would make me proud and haughty. "We backed and filled for two days wiih the deal hove to. Then the captain was about to split the difference with half a plug when the whale went dry, the wick fell in, and I was left on my beam ends. Holy smoke, but that captain got mad! He threatened to leave us on the island, but the idiot seaman begged so hard the old man calmed down again and allowed us to work our passage home. But we might have owned the schooner." At this point in his narrative Mr. Tokens lurched heavily, his sail came down witb a run. and he threatened to roll his spar deck under. But the skipper and Mr. Skate took charge of the derelict and made a rough passage home in a water front hack.— Charles Dryden

A Sure llemedy. Doctors have exhausted their wits in telling the sleepless "how to get to sleep." The best recipe we know of is before getting into bed yourself to walk the floor two or three hourdwith a teething baby. If utter exhaustion does' not then follow, your case is hopeless.