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Astonishing History of Troy Town

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<h3>CHAPTER XXI.</h3> <h3>THAT A VERY LITTLE TEA MAY SUFFICE TO ELEVATE A MAN.</h3> Next morning Mr. Fogo was aroused from sleep by the rattle of breakfast-cups, and the voice of Caleb singing below— <blockquote><blockquote> "O, Amble es a fine town, wi' ships in the bay,  An' I wish wi' my heart I was on'y there to-day;  I wish wi' my heart I was far away from here,  A-sittin' in my parlour, an' a-talkin' to my dear." </blockquote></blockquote> This was Caleb's signal for his master to rise; and he would pipe out his old sea-staves as long as Mr. Fogo cared to listen. Often, of an evening, the two would sit by the hour, Caleb trolling lustily with red cheeks, while his master beat time with his pipe stem, and joined feebly in the chorus— <blockquote><blockquote> "Then 'tes home, dearie, home—O, 'tes home I wants to be!  My tawps'les are h'isted, an' I must out to sea.  Then 'tes home, dearie, home!" </blockquote></blockquote> Mr. Fogo arose and looked forth at the window. The morning was perfect; the air fresh with dew and the scent of awakening roses. Across the creek the old hull lay as peacefully as ever. "I will explore it this very morning," thought Mr. Fogo to himself. The resolve was still strong as he descended to breakfast. Caleb was still singing— <blockquote><blockquote> "O, ef et be a lass, she shall wear a goulden ring;  An' ef et be a lad, he shall live to sarve hes king;  Wi' hes buckles, an' hes butes, an' hes little jacket blue,  He shall walk the quarter-deck, as hes daddy used to do.  Then 'tes home—" </blockquote></blockquote> "Mornin', sir, an' axin' your pardon for singin' o' Sunday. How be feelin' arter et?—as Grace said to her cheeld when her rubbed in the cough-mixtur' an' made 'un swaller the lineament." "Do you mean after the ghost?" "Iss, sir. There's no dead body about, so ghost et were. I were a-thinkin', wi' your lave, sir, I'd go down to Troy to church this mornin'; I wants to be exercised a bit arter all this witchcraf'." Mr. Fogo wondered at this proposal to go to church for exercise, but readily granted leave. Nor was it until Caleb had departed that "exorcised" occurred to him as a varia lectio. Left to himself, Mr. Fogo spent a tranquil hour among his roses; and then, remembering his determination, unmoored his boat and prepared to satisfy his doubts. The tide was low—so low that on the further side of the old wreck his paddles plunged once or twice into mud. Nor was it easy to swing himself on board; but a rusty chain helped him, and after one or two failures he stood upon deck. All was desolation. He peered down into the hold, where the water lay deep and still; crawled forward, and peeped through a shattered deadlight into the forecastle. The water was here, too, though it had drained somewhat, owing to the depression amidships; but nothing to explain the mystery. Mr. Fogo crept aft with better hopes of success, gained the poop, and peered down the companion. The light was too dim to reveal anything. Nothing daunted, he crawled down the ladder and into the captain's cabin. The first thing to catch his eye was an empty packing-case, with a heap of shavings and cotton-wool beside it. On the side of the case was printed in blue letters—" Wapshott and Sons. Chicago. Patent Compressed Tea. With Care." Mr. Fogo poked his nose inside it. A faint smell of tea still lingered about the wood. Next he inspected the cupboards. Some were open and all unlocked. He went over them all. At the end he found himself the richer by— <blockquote><blockquote> A watch-glass. Three brass buttons (one bearing the initials P. J., and all coated with verdigris). A pair of nut-crackers. Several leaves of a devotional work entitled "Where shall I be To-morrow? or, Thoughts for Mariners." A key. An oily rag. The cap of a telescope. An empty bottle, labelled, and bearing in faded ink: "Poison. For Dick Collins, when his leg is bad." </blockquote></blockquote> On the whole this was not encouraging. Mr. Fogo was turning to abandon the search, when something upon the cabin-floor caught his eye. He stooped and picked it up. It was a lady's glove. Mr. Fogo turned it over in his hand. It was a dainty six-buttoned glove, of a light tan colour, and showed scarcely a trace of wear. "This is very odd," muttered he; "I can hardly fancy a smuggler wearing this, still less a ghost." With his thoughts still running on the woman he had seen upon the deck, he advanced to the packing-case again, and was beginning absently to kick aside the heap of shavings and cotton-wool, when his foot encountered some hard object. He bent down and drew it forth. It was a small tin case or canister, of oblong shape, and measured some four inches by two. It was perhaps two inches in depth. On the cover was a label, and on the label the legend— <center> "WAPSHOTTS' PATENT COMPRESSED TEA." Beware of Imitations." </center> The lid was lightly soldered, and the canister remarkably heavy. Mr. Fogo pulled out his pocket-knife, sat down on the edge of the packing-case, and began to open his prize. He had broken one blade in trying to unfasten the solder, and was beginning with the second, when it occurred to him to cut through the soft metal of the canister. In a few minutes he had worked a considerable hole in the lid. "Very curious tea this," remarked Mr. Fogo. "It's a deal more like putty—or Californian honey." The light in the cabin was faint; he determined to carry the canister on deck and examine it in the sunlight. He picked his way up the ladder, and was just emerging from the hatch, when the sudden glare of the sun caused him to blink and then sneeze. He caught his toe on the last step, stumbled, dropped his prize, and fell forward on to the deck. The canister struck the step, jolted twice, plunged to the bottom with a smart thud— There was a flash of jagged flame, a loud roar, a heave and crash of riven timbers—and the old hull had passed from decay to annihilation.   This would seem a convenient moment for regulating our watches, which have gained considerably, and putting back the hands to half-past ten, at which hour the bells of St. Symphorian's, Troy, began to summon the town to worship. A few minutes later the town sallied forth in pairs and decorous excitement. It was dying to see Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys' costume, and marched churchwards in haste. But to-day it halted for the most part at the church-porch, and went no further. Who first whispered the news is disputed. It is conjectured that Mrs. Tripp, whose cow supplied "The Bower" with milk, learnt the facts from the buttoned youth when she paid her professional call at 7.30 a.m.; but none knew for certain. I might here paint Mrs. Tripp full of tongues, and dress her up as "Rumour," after the best epic models; but in saying that she had the usual number of lips and hands, that her parents were respectable, and that she never shrieked from a lofty tower in her life, I only do her the barest justice. This much is sure—that among the knot of loungers at the church-gate such sentences as the following passed from mouth to mouth— "Es et true, do'ee think?" "Certain—carr'ge an' pair from Five Lanes las' night—not a word said." "My!" "Ef so, this town's been purtily robbed." "That's a true word." Then this happened— The Trojan in broadcloth heard, as he passed, the words of the Trojan in corduroy; inquired, shook his head, and walked on; doubted; turned back to hear more; consulted his wife; and decided to go and see. The consequence was that at ten minutes to eleven the stream of church-goers descending along the Parade was met by another stream rolling towards "The Bower" and every moment gathering volume. As there was no place of worship in this direction, a conference followed the confluence. The churchgoers turned, joined the larger stream, and the whole flood poured uphill. Outside "The Bower" they halted for a moment. One tradesman, a furniture dealer, bolder than the rest, advanced to the front-door and knocked. The boy in buttons answered with a white face. In a moment the truth was out. This whisper among the crowd grew to a murmur, the murmur to a roar. In vain the church-bell tolled out the single note that summons the parson. The dismay of the cheated town waxed to hot indignation. Even Miss Limpenny, issuing from her front door, heard the news, and returned in a stupor to watch matters from her bedroom window. She had not missed a morning service for fourteen years. Then as if by one impulse passion gave way to action. Like an invading army the townspeople poured in at the gate, trampling the turf and crushing the flower-beds. They forced the front door (whence the page fled, to hide in the cellar), pushed into the hall, swarmed into the drawing-room—upstairs—all over the house. Only in the bedrooms were there signs of a hasty flight; but they were enough. The strangers had decamped. There was a pause of indecision, but for no long time. "Sunday or no Sunday," screamed the choleric upholsterer, "every stick of mine will I take off this morning!" He tucked up his sleeves, and, flinging open the French window of the drawing-room, caught up an arm-chair, and began to drag it out towards the lawn. A cheer followed. The Trojan blood was up. It was the signal for a general sack. Flinging off his Sunday coat, each deluded tradesman seized upon his property, or ransacked the house until he found it. The ironmonger caught up his fire-irons, the carpenter pulled down his shelves, the grocer dived into the pantry and emerged with tea and candles. It is said that the coal-merchant—who was a dandy—procured a sack, and with his own hand emptied the coal-cellar within half an hour. As each fresh article was confiscated, the crowd cheered anew. Never was such a scene in Troy. Even the local aristocracy— the Cumeelfo—mingled with the throng and watched the havoc as curiously as their neighbours. No member of the Buzza family was there, nor Mr. Moggridge. But few others did Miss Limpenny fail to perceive as she sat with hands hanging limply and mourned to Lavinia— "What disgrace! What a lasting blemish upon our society! There goes Hancock with the music-stool. To run away just before quarter-day, and they so refined to all appearance, so—My dear, they will have the house down. Papa told me once that during the Bristol riots— I declare, there's the Doctor looking on! I wonder how he can." And the poor lady hid her face in her hands. By half past twelve all was over, and "The Bower" stripped of every article of furniture or consumption for which the money was owing. And yet, to the honour of Troy, no single theft or act of wanton destruction was perpetrated. Save for the trampled flowers and marks of dusty boots upon the carpets, the house was left as it stood on the day when Mr. and Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys arrived. It should be mentioned, perhaps, that Seth Udy's little boy was detected with his fist in a jar of moist sugar; but Mrs. Udy, it was remarked, was a Penpoodle woman. The sack was accomplished; and the crowd, heated but conscious of a duty done, was returning with the spoil, when towards the north a white glare leapt into the heaven and as suddenly vanished. In a moment or so a dull roar followed, and the earth shuddered underfoot. Troy trembled. It remembered its neglected Sabbath, and trembled again.   <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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