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One thing I can say, however, and that is that you bear no resemblance whatever to a fisher lad.” Will was soon quite at home with Mr. and Mrs. Archer, who introduced him with pride as “our sailor boy” to many of their friends. On the third day of his stay he hired a gig and drove over to Scarcombe.
Moreover, Scarcombe was a bleak place, and the man looked sorely shaken with the storm of life. He seemed, indeed, almost unable to hold out much longer; his breath was short, and he had a hacking cough. To the surprise of the people, he did not attempt to play for their amusement or to ask, in any way, for alms.
On hearing the name of the ship, Dimchurch and Tom Stevens at once volunteered. They were given a fortnight’s leave; so Will, with Tom Stevens, determined to take a run up to Scarcombe, and the same day took coach to London.
Will slept there that night, and the next morning drove into the city to his lawyer’s office. “Well, Captain Gilmore?” said that gentleman as Will entered his private room. “I am glad to see you. I have been quietly at work making enquiries since you were last here. I sent a man down to Scarcombe some months ago.
It was not necessary, however, to specify the names of their mothers, as girls were considered quite secondary persons in Scarcombe. One small cargo had been run, but the revenue people were so sharp that the French lugger had given up making the village a landing-place. John Mugby and his two sons had been drowned, and John Hawkins’s boat had been smashed up.
Here am I, an old man, and never, so far as I can remember, been a couple of miles from Scarcombe, and you, quite a young chap, have been wandering and fighting all over the world.” “Not quite so much as that, John, though I have certainly seen a good deal. But here is mother.” Mrs. Hammond entered with a face beaming with delight. “You never saw anyone so astonished as Mrs.
Above all, Mrs. Archer, I shall never forget that it was the kindness you showed me, and the pains you took in my education, that gave me my start in life.” The next day he drove over to Scarcombe, and to his pleasure, on entering the cottage, found John and his wife both sitting just where he had last seen them. They both rose to greet him.
A wandering musician was a rarity in the village of Scarcombe. In fact, such a thing had not been known in the memory of the oldest inhabitant. What could have brought him here? men and women asked themselves. There was surely nobody who could dance in the village, and the few coppers he would gain by performing on his violin would not repay him for his trouble.
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