Kitobni o'qish: «The Coxswain's Bride; also, Jack Frost and Sons; and, A Double Rescue»

Story 1 – Chapter 1.
The Rising Tide—A Tale of the Sea

The coxswain went by the name of Sturdy Bob among his mates. Among the women of the village he was better known as handsome Bob, and, looking at him, you could not help seeing that both titles were appropriate, for our coxswain was broad and strong as well as good-looking, with that peculiar cast of features and calm decided manner which frequently distinguish the men who are born to lead their fellows.

Robert Massey, though quite young, was already a leader of men—not only by nature but by profession—being coxswain of the Greyton lifeboat, and, truly, the men who followed his lead had need to be made of good stuff, with bold, enthusiastic, self-sacrificing spirits, for he often led them into scenes of wild—but, hold! We must not forecast.

Well, we introduce our hero to the reader on a calm September evening, which blazed with sunshine. The sun need not have been mentioned, however, but for the fact that it converted the head of a fair-haired fisher-girl, seated beside Bob, into a ball of rippling gold, and suffused her young cheeks with a glow that rudely intensified her natural colour.

She was the coxswain’s bride-elect, and up to that date the course of their true love had run quite smoothly in spite of adverse proverbs.

“I can’t believe my luck,” said Bob, gravely.

He said most things gravely, though there was not a man in Greyton who could laugh more heartily than he at a good joke.

“What luck do you mean, Bob?” asked Nellie Carr, lifting her eyes from the net she was mending, and fixing them on the coxswain’s bronzed face with an air of charming innocence. Then, becoming suddenly aware of what he meant without being told, she gave vent to a quick little laugh, dropped her eyes on the net, and again became intent on repairs.

“To think,” continued Bob, taking two or three draws at his short pipe—for our hero was not perfect, being, like so many of his class, afflicted with the delusion of tobacco!—“to think that there’ll be no Nellie Carr to-morrow afternoon, only a Mrs Massey! The tide o’ my life is risin’ fast, Nellie—almost at flood now. It seems too good to be true—”

“Right you are, boy,” interrupted a gruff but hearty voice, as a burly fisherman “rolled” round the stern of the boat in front of which the lovers were seated on the sand. “W’en my Moggie an’ me was a-coortin’ we thought, an’ said, it was too good to be true, an’ so it was; leastwise it was too true to be good, for Moggie took me for better an’ wuss, though it stood to reason I couldn’t be both, d’ee see? an’ I soon found her wuss than better, which—”

“Come, come, Joe Slag,” cried Bob, “let’s have none o’ your ill-omened growls to-night. What brings you here?”

“I’ve comed for the key o’ the lifeboat,” returned Slag, with a knowing glance at Nellie. “If the glass ain’t tellin’ lies we may have use for her before long.”

Massey pulled the key from his pocket, and gave it to Slag, who was his bowman, and who, with the exception of himself, was the best man of the lifeboat crew.

“I’ll have to follow him,” said Bob, rising soon after his mate had left, “so good-bye, Nellie, till to-morrow.”

He did not stoop to kiss her, for the wide sands lay before them with fisher-boys playing thereon—apparently in their fathers’ boots and sou’-westers—and knots of observant comrades scattered about.

“See that you’re not late at church to-morrow, Bob,” said the girl, with a smile and a warning look.

“Trust me,” returned Bob.

As he walked towards the lifeboat-house—a conspicuous little building near the pier—he tried to blow off some of the joy in his capacious breast by whistling.

“Why, Slag,” he exclaimed on entering the shed, “I do believe you’ve been an’ put on the blue ribbon!”

“That’s just what I’ve done, Bob,” returned the other. “I thought you’d ’ave noticed it at the boat; but I forgot you could see nothin’ but the blue of Nellie’s eyes.”

“Of course not. Who’d expect me to see anything else when I’m beside her?” retorted Bob. “But what has made you change your mind? I’m sure the last time I tried to get you to hoist the blue-peter ye were obstinate enough—dead against it.”

“True, Bob; but since that time I’ve seed a dear woman that I was fond of die from drink, an’ I’ve seed Tom Riley, one of our best men, get on the road to ruin through the same; so I’ve hoisted the blue flag, as ye see.”

“That’s a good job, Slag, but don’t you forget, my lad, that the blue ribbon won’t save you. There’s but one Saviour of men. Nevertheless, it’s well to fight our battles under a flag, an’ the blue is a good one—as things go. Show your colours and never say die; that’s my motto. As you said, Slag, the glass is uncommon low to-day. I shouldn’t wonder if there was dirty weather brewin’ up somewhere.”

The coxswain was right, and the barometer on that occasion was a true prophet. The weather which “brewed up” that evening was more than “dirty,” it was tempestuous; and before midnight a tremendous hurricane was devastating the western shores of the kingdom. Many a good ship fought a hard battle that night with tide and tempest, and many a bad one went down. The gale was short-lived but fierce, and it strewed our western shores with wreckage and corpses, while it called forth the energies and heroism of our lifeboat and coastguard men from north to south.

Driving before the gale that night under close-reefed topsails, a small but well-found schooner came careering over the foaming billows from the regions of the far south, freighted with merchandise and gold and happy human beings. Happy! Ay, they were happy, both passengers and crew, for they were used by that time to facing and out-riding gales; and was not the desired haven almost in sight—home close at hand?

The captain, however, did not share in the general satisfaction. Out in “blue water” he feared no gale, but no one knew better than himself that the enemy was about to assail him at his weakest moment—when close to land. No one, however, could guess his thoughts as he stood there upon the quarter-deck, clad in oil-skins, drenched with spray, glancing now at the compass, now at the sails, or at the scarce visible horizon.

As darkness deepened and tempest increased, the passengers below became less cheerful, with the exception of one curly-haired little girl, whose exuberant spirit nothing could quell. Her young widowed mother had given in to the little one’s importunities, and allowed her to sit up late on this the last night at sea, to lend a helping hand while she packed up so as to be ready for landing next day. Consent had been the more readily given that the white-haired grandfather of little Lizzie volunteered to take care of her and keep her out of mischief.

The other passengers were as yet only subdued, not alarmed. There were men and women and little ones from the Australian cities, rough men from the sheep farms, and bronzed men from the gold mines. All were busy making preparations to land on the morrow. With the exception of those preparations things on board went on much as they had been going on in “dirty weather” all the voyage through.

Suddenly there was a crash! Most of the male passengers, knowing well what it meant, sprang to the companion-ladder—those of them at least who had not been thrown down or paralysed—and rushed on deck. Shrieks and yells burst forth as if in emulation of the howling winds. Crash followed crash, as each billow lifted the doomed vessel and let her fall on the sands with a shock that no structure made by man could long withstand. Next moment a terrific rending overhead told that one, or both, of the masts had gone by the board. At the same time the sea found entrance and poured down hatchways and through opening seams in cataracts. The inclined position of the deck showed that she was aground.

The very thought of being aground comforted some, for, to their minds, it implied nearness to land, and land was, in their idea, safety. These simple ones were doomed to terrible enlightenment. Little Lizzie, pale and silent from terror, clung to her grandfather’s neck; the young widow to his disengaged arm. With the other arm the old man held on to a brass rod, and prevented all three from being swept to leeward, where several of the women and children were already struggling to escape from a mass of water and wrecked furniture.

“Come on deck—all hands!” shouted a hoarse voice, as one of the officers leaped into the cabin, followed by several men, who assisted the people to rise.

It is usual to keep passengers below as much as possible in such circumstances, but the position of the schooner, with her bow high on a bank, and her stern deep in the water, rendered a different course needful on this occasion.

With difficulty the passengers were got up to the bow, where they clustered and clung about the windlass and other points of vantage. Then it was that the true nature of their calamity was revealed, for no land was visible, nothing was to be seen around them but a hell of raging foam, which, in the almost total darkness of the night, leaped and glimmered as if with phosphoric light. Beyond this circle of, as it were, wild lambent flame, all was black, like a wall of ebony, from out of which continually there rushed into view coiling, curling, hoary-headed monsters, in the shape of roaring billows, which burst upon and over them, deluging the decks, and causing the timbers of the ship to writhe as if in pain.

“We’ve got on the tail o’ the sands,” muttered a sailor to some one as he passed, axe in hand, to cut away the wreckage of the masts, which were pounding and tugging alongside.

On the sands! Yes, but no sands were visible, for they had struck on an outlying bank, far from shore, over which the ocean swept like the besom of destruction.

It was nearly low water at the time of the disaster. As the tide fell the wreck ceased to heave. Then it became possible for the seamen to move about without clinging to shrouds and stanchions for very life.

“Fetch a rocket, Jim,” said the captain to one of the men.

Jim obeyed, and soon a whizzing line of light was seen athwart the black sky.

“They’ll never see it,” muttered the first mate, as he got ready another rocket. “Weather’s too thick.”

Several rockets were fired, and then, to make more sure of attracting the lifeboat men, a tar-barrel, fastened to the end of a spar, was thrust out ahead and set on fire. By the grand lurid flare of this giant torch the surrounding desolation was made more apparent, and at the fearful sight hearts which had hitherto held up began to sink in despair.

The mate’s fears seemed to be well grounded, for no answering signal was seen to rise from the land, towards which every eye was anxiously strained. One hour passed, then another, and another, but still no help came. Then the tide began to rise, and with it, of course, the danger to increase. All this time rockets had been sent up at intervals, and tar-barrels had been kept burning.

“We had better make the women and children fast, sir,” suggested the mate, as a heavy mass of spray burst over the bulwarks and drenched them.

“Do so,” replied the captain, gathering up a coil of rope to assist in the work.

“Is this necessary?” asked the widow, as the captain approached her.

“I fear it is,” he replied. “The tide is rising fast. In a short time the waves will be breaking over us again, and you will run a chance of bein’ swept away if we don’t make you fast. But don’t despair, they must have seen our signals by this time, an’ we shall soon have the lifeboat out.”

“God grant it,” murmured the widow, fervently, as she strained poor little trembling Lizzie to her breast.

But as the moments flew by and no succour came, some gave way altogether and moaned piteously, while others appeared to be bereft of all capacity of thought or action. Many began to pray in frantic incoherence, and several gave vent to their feelings in curses. Only a few maintained absolute self-possession and silence. Among these were the widow and one or two of the other women.

They were in this condition when one of the crew who had been noted as a first-rate singer of sea songs, and the “life of the fo’c’s’l,” had occasion to pass the spot where the passengers were huddled under the lee of the starboard bulwarks.

“Is there never a one of ye,” he asked, almost sternly, “who can pray like a Christian without screechin’? You don’t suppose the Almighty’s deaf, do you?”

This unexpected speech quieted the noisy ones, and one of the women, turning to a man beside her, said, “You pray for us, Joe.”

Joe was one of those who had remained, from the first, perfectly still, except when required to move, or when those near him needed assistance. He was a grave elderly man, whose quiet demeanour, dress, and general appearance, suggested the idea of a city missionary—an idea which was strengthened when, in obedience to the woman’s request, he promptly prayed, in measured sentences, yet with intense earnestness, for deliverance—first from sin and then from impending death—in the name of Jesus. His petition was very short, and it was barely finished when a wave of unusual size struck the vessel with tremendous violence, burst over the side and almost swept every one into the sea. Indeed, it was evident that some of the weaker of the party would have perished then if they had not been secured to the vessel with ropes.

It seemed like a stern refusal of the prayer, and was regarded as such by some of the despairing ones, when a sudden cheer was heard and a light resembling a great star was seen to burst from the darkness to windward.

“The lifeboat!” shouted the captain, and they cheered with as much hearty joy as if they were already safe.

A few minutes more and the familiar blue and white boat of mercy leaped out of darkness into the midst of the foaming waters like a living creature.

It was the boat from the neighbouring port of Brentley. Either the storm-drift had not been so thick in that direction as in the neighbourhood of Greyton, or the Brentley men had kept a better look-out. She had run down to the wreck under sail. On reaching it—a short distant to windward—the sail was lowered, the anchor dropped, the cable payed out, and the boat eased down until it was under the lee of the wreck. But the first joy at her appearance quickly died out of the hearts of some, who were ignorant of the powers of lifeboats and lifeboat men, when the little craft was seen at one moment tossed on the leaping foam till on a level with the ship’s bulwarks, at the next moment far down in the swirling waters under the mizzen chains; now sheering off as if about to forsake them altogether; anon rushing at their sides with a violence that threatened swift destruction to the boat; never for one instant still; always tugging and plunging like a mad thing. “How can we ever get into that?” was the thought that naturally sprang into the minds of some with chilling power.

Those, however, who understood the situation better, had more legitimate ground for anxiety, for they knew that the lifeboat, if loaded to its utmost capacity, could not carry more than half the souls that had to be saved. On becoming aware of this the men soon began to reveal their true characters. The unselfish and gentle made way for the women and children. The coarse and brutal, casting shame and every manly feeling aside, struggled to the front with oaths and curses, some of them even using that false familiar motto, “Every man for himself, and God for us all!”

But these received a check at the gangway, for there stood the captain, revolver in hand. He spoke but one word—“back,” and the cravens slunk away. The mild man who had offered prayer sat on the ship’s bulwarks calmly looking on. He understood the limited capacity of the boat, and had made up his mind to die.

“Now, madam, make haste,” cried the mate, pushing his way towards the widow.

“Come, father,” she said, holding out her hand; but the old man did not move.

“There are more women and little ones,” he said, “than the boat can hold. Good-bye, darling. We shall meet again—up yonder. Go.”

“Never!” exclaimed the widow, springing to his side. “I will die with you, father! But here, boatman, save, oh, save my child!”

No one attended to her. At such terrible moments men cannot afford to wait on indecision. Other women were ready and only too glad to go. With a sense almost of relief at the thought that separation was now impossible, the widow strained the child to her bosom and clung to her old father.

At that moment the report of a pistol was heard, and a man fell dead upon the deck. At the last moment he had resolved to risk all and rushed to the side, intending to jump into the boat.

“Shove off,” was shouted. The boat shot from the vessel’s side. The bowman hauled on the cable. In a few seconds the oars were shipped, the anchor was got in, and the overloaded but insubmergible craft disappeared into the darkness out of which it had come.

The wretched people thus left on the wreck knew well that the boat could not make her port, land the rescued party, and return for them under some hours. They also knew that the waves were increasing in power and volume with the rising water, and that their vessel could not survive another tide. Can we wonder that most of them again gave way to despair—forgetting that with God “all things are possible?”

They were not yet forsaken, however. On the pier-head at Greyton their signals had indeed been observed, but while the Brentley boat, owing to its position, could run down to the wreck with all sail set, it was impossible for that of Greyton to reach it, except by pulling slowly against wind and tide.

The instant that Bob Massey saw the flare of the first tar-barrel he had called out his men. One after another they came leaping over the rocks—eager for the God-like work of saving life.

It is one of the grand characteristics of our lifeboatmen that on being summoned to the fight there are often far more volunteers than are required. Joe Slag, as in duty bound, was first to answer the call. Then several of the younger men came running down. Last of all—almost too late—Tom Riley appeared, buckling on his lifebelt as he ran. His gait was not quite steady, and his face was flushed. The coxswain was quick to note these facts.

“Take that lifebelt off!” he said, sternly, when Riley came up.

No need to ask why. The tippler knew the reason why only too well, and he also knew that it was useless as well as dangerous to disobey the coxswain. He took off the belt at once, flung it down, and staggered away back to his grog-shop.

A powerful young fisherman—who had felt almost heart-broken by being refused permission to go for want of room—gladly put on the belt and took Riley’s place. Another minute and they were out of the harbour, battling with the billows and fighting their way inch by inch against the howling blast. At last they got out so far that they could hoist sail and run with a slant for the wreck.

Story 1 – Chapter 2

It was daylight by the time the Greyton lifeboat arrived at the scene of action, but the thick, spray-charged atmosphere was almost as bad to see through as the blackness of night.

“I’m afeared she’s gone,” shouted Slag to the coxswain, putting his hand to his mouth to prevent the words being blown bodily away.

“No—I see her bearing sou’-west,” was the brief reply, as Bob Massey plied his steering oar.

A few minutes later, and the despairing people on the wreck, catching sight of the boat, greeted her with a long, wild cheer of reviving hope.

“What is it?” asked the widow, faintly, for she had been growing gradually weaker from prolonged exposure.

“The lifeboat, darling,” said her father. “Did I not say that He would not forsake us?”

“Thank God!” murmured the poor woman, fervently. “Look up, Lizzie; the lifeboat is coming to save us!”

The child, who had been comparatively warm and sheltered, at the expense of her mother, looked up and smiled.

Soon the boat was alongside, and much the same scene that we have already described was re-enacted; but there were no rebels this time. By the captain’s resolute bearing at first many lives had probably been saved.

When most of the people had been lowered into the boat—not without great risk and many bruises—the widow, who, cowering with her father and child under the forecastle, had been overlooked, was led to the side with her child.

“Not together, ma’am,” said the captain. “You’d likely drop her. Let me lower the child down first; or come first yourself—that will be better.”

“Give Lizzie to me,” said the grandfather. “I’ll hold her till you are safe, and ready to receive her.”

“Look alive, ma’am,” urged one of the lifeboat men, who had scrambled on deck to render assistance.

The widow was soon in the boat, and held out her arms for little Lizzie. Somehow—no one could tell how—the men made a bungle of it. Perhaps the very fear of doing so was the cause. Instead of being caught by the boatmen, Lizzie slipped between the boat and the vessel into the boiling sea. Giving one agonised cry, the grandfather leaped after her, but the surging boat swept in at the moment, and the old man fortunately fell into that instead of the sea. He was not hurt, for strong arms had been upraised to receive him. The little child rose above the foam as she was whirled past the stern of the boat by a swift current. Bob Massey saw her little out-stretched arms. There was no time for thought or consideration. With one bound the coxswain was overboard. Next moment the crew saw him far astern with the child in his arms.

“Get ’em all aboard first!” came back, even against the wind, in Bob’s powerful, deep-toned voice.

Another moment, and he was lost to sight in the boiling waste of waters. Slag knew well what he meant. If they should cast off the rope before rescuing all, for the purpose of picking up the coxswain, there would be no possibility of getting back again to the schooner, for she was fast breaking up. Every current and eddy about these sands was well known to Joe Slag, also the set of the tides—besides, had not Bob got on his lifebelt? He felt, nevertheless, that it was a tremendous risk to let him go. But what could poor Slag do? To cast off at once would have been to sacrifice about a dozen lives for the sake of saving two. It was a fearful trial. Joe loved Bob as a brother. His heart well nigh burst, but it stood the trial. He did his duty, and held on to the wreck!

Duty, on that occasion, however, was done with a promptitude, and in a fashion, that was not usual in one of his sedate nature. Fortunately, none but men remained on the wreck by that time.

“Tumble ’em in—sharp!” cried Slag.

The lifeboat men obeyed literally, and tumbled them in with a celerity that might almost have awakened surprise in a sack of potatoes!

To haul up the anchor would have been slow work. Slag—economical by nature—became extravagant for once. An axe made short work of cable and anchor.

“Let ’em go!” he growled, as the boat drifted away.

The sail was set with miraculous speed, for now the wind was in their favour, and the gay lifeboat bounded off in the direction where Bob had disappeared, as though it felt a lively interest in the recovery of its coxswain. It seemed as if the very elements sympathised with their anxiety, for just then the gale sensibly abated, and the rising sun broke through a rift in the grey clouds.

“There he is—I see him!” shouted the man in the bow—pointing eagerly ahead.

“It’s on’y a bit o’ wreck, boy,” cried a comrade.

“Right you are,” returned the bowman.

“There he is, though, an’ no mistake, this time. Port!—port! hard-a-port!”

As he spoke, the boat swept round into a sort of cross-current among the waves, where an object resembling a man was observed spinning slowly round like a lazy teetotum. They were soon alongside. A dozen claw-like hands made a simultaneous grasp, and hauled the object on board with a mighty cheer, for it was, indeed, the coxswain—alive, though much exhausted—with his precious little curly-haired burden in his arms.

The burden was also alive, and not much exhausted, for the weather was comparatively warm at the time, and Bob had thrust her little head into the luxuriant thicket of his beard and whiskers; and, spreading his great hands and arms all over her little body, had also kept her well out of the water—all which the great buoyancy of his lifebelt enabled him easily to do.

Shall we describe the joy of the widow and the grandfather? No; there are some sacred matters in life which are best left to the imagination. The sunshine which had begun to scatter the clouds, and flood both land and sea, was typical of the joy which could find no better means than sobs wherewith to express gratitude to the God of mercy.

We have said that the gale had begun to abate. When the lifeboat escaped from the turmoil of cross-seas that raged over the sands and got into deep water, all difficulties and dangers were past, and she was able to lay her course for Greyton harbour.

“Let’s have another swig o’ that cold tea,” said Bob Massey, resuming his rightful post at the helm. “It has done me a power o’ good. I had no notion that cold tea was so good for warmin’ the cockles o’ one’s heart.”

Ah! Bob Massey, it was not the cold tea, but the saving of that little girl that sent the life’s blood careering so warmly through your veins! However, there’s no harm done in putting it down to the credit of the cold tea. Had the tea been hot, there might have been some truth in your fancy.

“What’s the time?” asked Bob, with a sudden look of anxiety.

“Just gone ten,” said Slag, consulting a chronometer that bore some resemblance to an antique warming-pan.

The look of anxiety on the coxswain’s countenance deepened.

“Ease off the sheet a bit,” he said, looking sternly over the weather quarter, and whistling for a fresher breeze, though most men would have thought the breeze fresh enough already.

As if to accommodate him, and confirm the crew in the whistling superstition, the breeze did increase at the moment, and sent the lifeboat, as one of the men said, “snorin’” over the wild sea towards the harbour of Greyton.

It was a grand sight to behold the pier of the little port on that stormy morning. Of course, it had soon become known that the lifeboat was out. Although at starting it had been seen by only a few of the old salts—whose delight it was to recall the memory of grand stormy times long past, by facing the gales at all hours in oiled coats and sou’-westers—the greater part of the fishing village only became aware of the fact on turning out to work in the morning. We have said that the gale had moderated, and the sun had come out, so that the pier was crowded, not only with fisher-folk, but with visitors to the port, and other landsmen.

Great was the hope, and sanguine the expectation of the crowd, when, after long and anxious waiting, the lifeboat was at last descried far out at sea, making straight for the harbour.

“All right, Bill,” exclaimed an old fisherman, who had been for some time past sweeping the horizon with his glass, “the flag’s a-flyin’.”

“What does that mean?” asked a smart young lady, who had braved the blast and run the risk of a salt-wash from the sprays at the pier-end in her eager desire to see the boat arrive.

“It means, Miss, that they’ve managed to save somebody—how many, in course, we can’t tell till they come.”

There was a strong disposition on the part of the crowd to cheer when this was said.

After a few minutes’ further observation, the old man with the glass murmured, as if speaking to himself, “I do believe she’s chock-full o’ people.”

When this was repeated, the suppressed cheer broke forth, and the excitement increased. Soon the people with good eyes could see for themselves that the swiftly approaching boat was as full as she could hold of human beings. At the same time, those who were in the boat could see the swarms of sympathisers on the pier who awaited their arrival.

But there was one man who took no note of these things, and seemed indifferent to everything around him. The coxswain of the lifeboat was spiritually absent from the scene.

“You seem to’ve got the fidgets, Bob,” remarked Joe Slag, looking earnestly at his friend. “That swim has been too much for ’ee.”

“’Taint that, Joe,” replied Bob, quickly. “What’s the time now, lad?”

Pulling out the antique warming-pan again, Slag said it was nigh a quarter past ten, and added that he, (Bob), seemed to be “uncommon consarned about the time o’ day that mornin’.”

“And so would you be, lad,” returned the coxswain, in a low voice, as he advanced his mouth to his comrade’s ear, “if you was in my fix. I’ve got to be spliced this day before twelve, an’ the church is more’n two miles inland!”

“That’s awk’ard,” returned Slag, with a troubled look. “But, I say, Bob, you’ve kep’ this uncommon close from us all—eh? I never heerd ye was to be spliced so soon.”

“Of course I kep’ it close, ’cos I wanted to give you an’ my mates a surprise, but it strikes me I’ll give some other people a surprise to-day, for there’s no time to put on clean toggery.”

“You’ll never manage it,” said Slag, in a sympathetic tone, as he once more consulted the warming-pan. “It’s gettin’ on for half arter ten now, an’ it takes a mortal time to rig out in them go-to-meetin’ slops.”

“Do I look anything like a bridegroom as I am?” asked the coxswain with a curious glance.

“Sca’cely,” replied Slag, surveying his friend with a grim smile—”(mind your helm, Bob, there’s a awk’ard run on the tide round the pier-head, you know.) No; you’re not wery much like one. Even if your toggery was all ship-shape—which it ain’t—it would stand dryin’, and your hair would be the better o’ brushin’—to say nothin’ o’ your beard—an’ it do seem, too, as if a bit o’ soap might improve your hands an’ face arter last night’s work. No, Bob, I couldn’t honestly say as you’re exactly ship-shape as you stand.”