Six weeks had elapsed since the barque Sabrina had left the port of Liverpool.  She was stealing along swiftly before a seven knot breeze on the quarter, with studding-sails set.  It was intensely hot, for they had crossed the line only a few days since.  Captain Merryweather had proved himself all that a captain should be a thorough sailor, equal to any emergency; a firm but considerate commander; an interesting and lively companion, ever evenly cheerful, and watchful to make all around him comfortable and happy.  Hubert Oliphant was full of spirits happy himself, and anxious to make others the same; a keen observer of every natural phenomenon, and admirer of the varied beauties of ocean and sky; and, better still, with a heart ready to feel the bounty and love of God in everything bright, lovely, and grand.  Poor Frank had become less sad; but his sorrow still lay heavy on his spirits.  Yet there was hope for him to cling to; and he was rejoicing in the subduing of his evil habit, which was thus far broken through by his forced abstinence.  Alas! he did not realise that a smouldering fire and an extinct one are very different things.  He was sanguine and self-confident; he fancied that his resolution had gained in firmness, whereas it had only rested quiet, no test or strain having been applied to it; and, worst of all, he did not feel the need of seeking in prayer that grace from above which would have given strength to his weakness and nerve to his good resolves.  And yet who could see him and not love him?  There was a bright, reckless generosity in every look, word, and movement, which took the affections by storm, and chained the judgment.  Jacob Poole had become his devoted admirer.  Day by day, as he passed near him, and saw his sunny smile and heard his animated words, the young cabin-boy seemed more and more drawn to him by a sort of fascination.  Jacob was very happy.  The captain was a most kind and indulgent master, and he felt it a privilege to do his very best to please him.  But his greatest happiness was to listen when he could do so without neglecting his duty to the conversations between Frank, Hubert, and the captain, as they sat at meals round the cuddy-table, or occasionally when in fair weather they stood together on the poop-deck; and it was Frank’s voice and words that had a special charm for him.  Frank saw it partly, and often took occasion to have some talk with Jacob in his own cheery way; and so bound the boy still closer to him.

It was six weeks, as we have said, since the Sabrina left Liverpool.  The day was drawing to a close; in a little while the daylight would melt suddenly into night.  Not a cloud was in the sky:  a fiery glow, mingled with crimson, lit up the sea and heavens for a while, and, speedily fading away, dissolved, through a faint airy glimmer of palest yellow, into clear moonlight.  How lovely was the calm! a calm that rested not only on the sea, but also on the spirits of the voyagers, as the vessel slipped through the waters, gently bending over every now and then as the wind slightly freshened, and almost dipping her studding-sail boom into the sea, which glittered in one long pathway of quivering moonbeams, while every little wave, as far as the eye could reach, threw up a crest of silver.  The captain stood near the binnacle.  He was giving a lesson in steering to Jacob Poole, who felt very proud at taking his place at the wheel for the first time, and grasped the spokes with a firm hand, keeping his eye steadily on the compass.  Frank and Hubert stood near, enjoying the lovely evening, and watching Captain Merryweather and the boy.

“Steady, my lad, steady,” said the captain; “keep her head just south and by east.  A firm hand, a steady eye, and a sound heart; there’s no good without them.”

“You’ll soon make a good sailor of him, captain,” said Hubert.

“Ay, I hope so,” was the reply.  “He’s got the best guarantee for the firm hand and the steady eye in his total abstinence; and I hope he has the sound heart too.”

“You look, captain, as if total abstinence had thriven with you.  Have you always been a total abstainer?” asked Frank.

A shade of deep sadness came over the captain’s face as he answered,

“No, Mr Oldfield; but it’s many years now since I was driven into it.”

“Driven!” exclaimed Frank, laughing; “you do not look a likely subject to be driven into anything.”

“Ay, sir; but there are two sorts of driving body-driving and heart-driving.  Mine was heart-driving.”

“I should very much like to hear how it was that you were driven into becoming an abstainer,” said Hubert; “if it will not be asking too much.”

“Not at all, sir; and perhaps it may do you all good to hear it, though it’s a very sad story. Steady, Jacob, steady; keep her full. It may help to keep you firm when you get to Australia.  You’ll find plenty of drinking traps there.”

“I’m not afraid,” said Frank.  “But by all means let us have your story.  We are all attention.”

Hubert sighed; he wished that Frank were not so confident.

“Ay,” said the captain, gazing dreamily across the water; “I think I see her now my poor dear mother.  She was a good mother to me.  That’s one of God’s best gifts in this rough world of ours, Mr Oliphant.  I’ve known many a man and I’m one of them that’s owed everything to a good mother.  Well, my poor mother was a sailor’s wife; a better sailor, they say, than my father never stepped a plank.  He’d one fault, however, when she married him, and only one; so folks like to put it.  That fault was, that he took too much grog aboard; but only now and then.  So my poor mother smiled when it was talked about in courting time, and they were married.  My father was the owner of a small coasting-vessel, and of course was often away from home for weeks and sometimes for months together.  A sister and myself were the only children; she was two years the oldest.  My father used to be very fond of his children when he came home, and would bring us some present or other in his pocket, and a new gown, or cap, or bonnet for my mother.  Yet somehow I could hardly understand it then she was oftener in tears than in smiles when he stayed ashore.  I know how it was now:  he’d learned to love the drink more and more; and she, poor thing, had got her eyes opened to the sin and misery it was bringing with it.  He was often away at nights now.  We children saw but little of him; and yet, when he was at home and sober, a kinder father, a better husband, a nobler-looking man wasn’t to be seen anywhere.  Well, you may be sure things didn’t mend as time went on.  My mother had hard work to make the stores hold out, for her allowance grew less as we children grew bigger.  Only one good thing came of all this:  when all this trouble blew on my poor mother like a hurricane, she shortened sail, and ran before the gale right into the heavenly port; or, as you’ll understand me better, she took her sins and her cares to her Saviour, and found peace there.  At last my sister grew up into a fine young woman, and I into a stout, healthy lad. Steady, Jacob, steady; mind your helm. My father didn’t improve with age.  He was not sober as often as he used to be; indeed, when he was on shore he was very rarely sober, and when he did stay an hour or two at home he was cross and snappish.  His fine temper and manly bearing were gone; for the drink, you may be sure, leaves its mark upon its slaves.  Just as it is with a man who has often been put in irons for bad conduct; you’d know him by his walk even when he’s at liberty he’s not like a man that has always been free.  Ah, my poor mother! it was hard times for her.  She talked to my father, but he only swore at her.  I shall never forget his first oath to her; it seemed to crush the light out of her heart.  However bad he’d been before, he had always been gentle to her.  But he was getting past that.  She tried again to reason with him when he was sober.  He was sulky at first; then he flew into a passion.  And once he struck her.  Yes; and I saw it, and I couldn’t bear it.  I was flying at him like a tiger, when my dear mother flung her arms round me, and chained me to the spot.  My father never forgot that.  He seemed from that day to have lost all love for me; and I must own that I had little left for him.  My mother loved him still, and so did my sister; but they left off talking to him about his drunkenness.  It was of no use; they prayed for him instead. Steady, Jacob; luff a bit, my lad; luff you can.”

“And did this make you an abstainer?” asked Hubert.

“No, sir; so far from it, that I was just beginning to like my grog when I could get it.  I didn’t see the evil of the drink then; I didn’t see how the habit keeps winding its little cords round and round a man, till what begins as thin as a log-line, becomes in the end as thick as a hawser.  My mother trembled for me, I knew; I saw her look at me with tears in her eyes many a time, when I came home talkative and excited, though not exactly tipsy.  I could see she was sick at heart.  But I hadn’t learned my lesson yet; I was to have a terrible teacher.

“There was a young man who began to visit at our cottage when my sister was just about twenty.  They used to call him well, that don’t matter; better his name should never be spoken by me.  He was a fisherman, as likely a lad as you’d see anywhere; and he’d one boast that few could make, he had never been tipsy in his life; he was proud of it; he had got his measure, he said, and he never went beyond it.  He laughed at teetotallers; they were such a sneaking, helpless lot, he said why couldn’t they take what was good for them, and stop there when they’d had enough; surely a man ought to be master of his own appetites he was, he said; he could stop when he pleased.  However, to make a long story short, he took a great fancy to my dear sister, and she soon returned it.  Our cottage was near the sea, but on a hill-side some hundred feet or more above the beach.  High ground rose behind it and sheltered it from the north and east winds.  It had a glorious view of the ocean, and one of the loveliest little gardens that any cottage could boast of.  The young man I spoke of would often sit with my sister in the little porch, when the roses and jessamine were in full flower all over it; and I used to think, as I looked at them, that a handsomer couple could never be made man and wife.  Well, it was agreed that they should wait a few months till he was fully prepared to give her a home.  My father just then was ashore, and took to the young man amazingly; he must have him spend many an evening at our cottage, and you may be sure that the grog didn’t remain in the cupboard.  My father had a great many yarns to spin, and liked a good listener; and as listening and talking are both dry work, one glass followed another till the young man’s eyes began to sparkle, and my poor sister’s to fill with tears; still, he always maintained, when she talked gently to him about it next day, that he knew well what he was about, that he never overstepped his mark, and that she might trust him.  Ah, it was easy to talk; but it was very plain that his mark began to be set glass after glass higher than it used to be.  At last, one night she couldn’t hold any longer, and implored him to stop as he was filling another tumbler.  Upon this my father burst out into a furious passion, and swore that, as he could find no peace at home, he’d go where he could find it, that was to the public-house, of course.  Out they both of them went, and we saw no more of them that night, you may be sure; and my mother and sister almost cried their hearts out.  It was some days after this before my sister’s lover ventured to show his face at our place, and then he didn’t dare to meet her eye.  She said very little to him; it was plain she was beginning to lose all hope; and she had reason too, for when the demon of drink gets a firm hold, Mr Oldfield, he’ll not let go, if he can help it, till he’s strangled every drop of good out of a man.  But I mustn’t be too long; there isn’t much left to tell, however. Steady, Jacob, my lad; keep her full. You may suppose that we hadn’t much more of my father’s company, or of the young man’s either; they found the public-house more to their mind; and so it went on night after night.  Little was said about the wedding, and my sister never alluded to it even to us.  At last October came.  It was one lovely moonlight night, just such a night as this, quiet and peaceful.  My father was to set out on one of his cruises next morning, and was expecting the mate to bring round his little vessel, and anchor her in the roads off the shore, in sight of our cottage.  He had come home pretty sober to tea, bringing my sister’s lover with him.  After tea there were several things he had to settle with my mother; so, while they were making their arrangements, my sister and the young man had an earnest talk together.  I didn’t mean to listen, but I could overhear that he was urging her to fix an early day for the wedding, with many promises of amendment and sobriety, which the poor girl listened to with a half-unwilling ear, and yet her heart couldn’t say, `No.’  At last my father cried, `Come, my lad, we’ll just go up to the top of the hill, and see if we can make out the Peggy.  She ought to be coming round by this time.’

“`Oh, father,’ cried my sister, `don’t go out again to-night.’

“`Nonsense!’ he said, roughly; `do you think I’m a baby, that can’t take care of myself?’

“My mother said nothing; my sister looked at her lover with an imploring glance.  I shall never forget it; there was both entreaty and despair in her eyes.  He hesitated a moment, but my father was already out of the door, and loudly calling on him to follow.

“`I’ll be back again in a few minutes,’ he said; `it won’t do to cross your father to-night.’

“Ah, those few minutes!  She went to the door.  It was a most lovely night; there was a flood of moonlight poured out upon land and sea.  All that God had made was as beautiful as if sin had never spoiled it.  Just a little to the right of our cottage the ground rose up suddenly, and sloped up about a quarter of a mile to the top of a high cliff, from the edge of which was a sheer descent, almost unbroken, to the beach, of several hundred feet.  It was a favourite spot of observation, for vessels could be seen miles off.

“My sister watched her father and lover in the clear moonlight to the top.  There they stood for about half an hour, and then they turned.  But which way?  Home?  It seemed so at first the young man was plainly hesitating.  At last he yielded to my father’s persuasion, and both disappeared over the farther side of the high ground.  My unhappy sister, with a wild cry of distress, came back into the cottage, and threw herself sobbing into a chair.

“`Oh, mother, mother!’ she cried, `they’re off again they’re gone to the public-house; father’ll be the death of him, body and soul.’

“My mother made no answer.  She could not speak.  She had no comfort to offer.  She knew that my wretched father was the tempter.  She knew that there was nothing but misery before her child.

“Oh, what a weary night that was!  We sat for hours waiting, listening.  At last we heard the sound of voices two voices were shouting out snatches of sea-songs with drunken vehemence.  We didn’t need any one to tell us whose voices they were.  My sister started up and rushed out.  I followed her, and so did my mother.  We could see now my father and the young man, sharp and clear in the moonlight, arm in arm at the top of the cliff.  They were waving their arms about and shouting, as they swayed and staggered to and fro.  Then they went forward towards the edge, and tried to steady themselves as they looked in the direction of the sea.

“`They’ll be over!’ shrieked my sister; `oh, let us try and save them!’

“My mother sank senseless on the ground.  For a moment my sister seemed as if she would do the same.  Then she and I rushed together towards the cliff at the top of our speed.  We could just see the two poor miserable drunkards staggering about for a little while, but then a sinking in the ground, as we hurried on, hid them from our sight.  A few minutes more and we were on the slope at the top, but where were they?  They were gone where?  I dared not let my sister go forward, but I could hardly hold her, till at last she sank down in a swoon.  And then I made my way to the top of the cliff, and my blood seemed to freeze in my veins as I looked over.  There they were on the rocks below, some hundred and fifty feet down.  I shouted for help; some of the neighbours had seen us running, and now came to my relief.  I left a kind woman with my unhappy sister, and hurried with some fishermen the nearest way to the beach.  It was sickening work climbing to the place on to which my miserable father and his companion had pitched in their fall.  Alas! they were both dead when we reached them, and frightfully mangled.  I can hardly bear to go on,” and the captain’s voice faltered, “and yet I must complete my story.  We made a sort of large hammock, wrapped them in it, and by the help of some poles carried them up to our cottage.  It was terrible work.  My sister did not shed a tear for days, indeed I scarcely ever saw her shed a tear at all; but she pined away, and a few short months closed her sad life.”

The captain paused, and it was long before any one broke the silence.  At last Hubert asked,

“And your mother?”

“Ah, my mother well, she did not die.  She mourned over her daughter; but I can’t say that she seemed to feel my father’s loss so much, and I think I can tell you why,” he added, looking very earnestly at the two young men.  “Mark this, young gentlemen, and you Jacob, too there’s this curse about the drink, when it’s got its footing in a home it eats out all warm affections.  I don’t think my mother had much love left for my father in her heart when he died.  His drunkenness had nearly stamped out the last spark.”

“It’s a sad story indeed,” said Frank, thoughtfully.

“Ay; and only one among many such sad stories,” said the captain.

“And so you were led after this to become a total abstainer?”

“Yes; it was on the day of my sister’s funeral.  I came back to the cottage after the service was over with my heart full of sorrowful thoughts.  My mother sat in her chair by the fire; her Bible was open before her, her head was bowed down, her hands clasped, and her lips moving in prayer.  I heard them utter my own name.

“`Mother,’ I said, springing forward, and throwing my arms round her, `please God, and with his help, I’ll never touch another drop of the drink from this day.’

“`God bless you, my son,’ she said, with sobs. `I’ve prayed him scores of times that my son might be preserved from living a drunkard’s life, and dying a drunkard’s death.  I believe he’s heard me.  I know he has, and I’ll trust him to make you truly his child, and then we shall meet in glory.’  From that day to this not a drop of intoxicating liquor has ever passed my lips.  But it’s time to turn in; we shan’t sleep the less sound because we’re not indebted to the grog for a nightcap.”

For some days after the captain had told his story, Frank Oldfield’s manner was subdued and less buoyant than usual something like a misgiving about his own ability to resist temptation, mingled with sad memories of the past.  But his spirits soon recovered their usual brightness.

It was on a cloudless day, when scarcely a breath of air puffed out the sails, and the dog-vane drooped lazily, as if desponding at having nothing to do, that Hubert was looking listlessly over the stern, marking how the wide expanse of the sea was heaving and swelling like a vast carpet of silk upraised and then drawn down again by some giant hand.  Suddenly he cried out,

“What’s that cutting its way behind us, just below the surface of the water?”

“A shark, most likely,” said the mate, coming up.  “Ay, sure enough it is,” he added, looking over the stern.  “Many a poor fellow has lost his life or his limbs by their ugly teeth.  We’ll bait a hook for him.”

This was soon done.  A large piece of rusty pork was stuck upon a hook attached to the end of a stout chain, the chain being fastened to a strong rope.  All was now excitement on board.  The captain, Hubert, Frank, and Jacob Poole looked over at the monster, whose dorsal fin just appeared above the water.  He did not, however, seem to be in any hurry to take the bait, but kept swimming near it, and now and then knocked it with his nose.

“Just look at the water,” cried Frank; “why, it’s all alive with little fish.  I never saw anything like it.”

Indeed, it was an extraordinary sight.  All round the vessel, and as deep down in the water as the eye could penetrate, the ocean was swarming with millions upon millions of little fishes, so that their countless multitudes completely changed the colour of the sea.  Jacob Poole, who was standing close by the captain, now sprang into the boat which hung over the stern to get a better look at the shark and his minute companions.

“Have a care,” shouted the captain, “or you’ll be over, if you don’t mind.”

It was too late; for just as Jacob was endeavouring to steady himself in the boat, a sudden roll of the ship threw him completely off his balance.  He tried to save himself by catching at a rope near him, but missed it, and fell right over the boat’s side into the sea below.

All was instantly confusion and dismay, for every one on board knew that Jacob was no swimmer.  Happily the ship was moving very sluggishly through the water, so one of the quarter-boats was instantly lowered from the davits.  But long before it could row to the rescue help had come from another quarter.  For one moment Hubert and his friend stood looking on transfixed with dismay, then, without an instant’s hesitation, Frank sprang upon the taffrail, and plunged headlong into the sea.  He was a capital swimmer, and soon reached poor Jacob.  But now a cry of horror arose from those on board.

“The shark! the shark!”

The creature had disappeared at the moment of the cabin-boy’s fall, the sudden and violent splash having completely scared him away for the instant; but scarcely had Frank reached the drowning lad, and raised him in the water, than the huge monster began to make towards them.  They were so short a distance from the vessel that those on board could plainly see the movements of the great fish as he glided up to them.

“Splash about with all your might, for Heaven’s sake,” roared out the captain.

“All right,” cried young Oldfield with perfect coolness, and at the same time making a violent commotion in the water all round him, which had the effect of daunting their enemy for the time.  And now the quarter-boat was lowered, and reached them in a few vigorous strokes.

“Pull for your lives, my lads,” shouted the mate, who was steering.  “Here we are steady ship oars.  Now then, Tom Davies, lay hold on ’em in with ’em quick there’s the shark again.  Jack, you slap away at the water with your oar.  Ay, my friend, we’ve puzzled you this time a near shave, though.  Now then, all right.  Give way, my lads.  Jacob, my boy, you’ve baulked Johnny shark of his dinner this once.”

They were soon alongside, and on deck, and were greeted by a lusty “Hurrah!” from captain and crew.

“Nobly done, nobly done, Mr Oldfield!” cried the captain, with tears in his eyes, and shaking Frank warmly by the hand.  Hubert was also earnest in his thanks and congratulations.  As for poor Jacob, when he had somewhat recovered from the utter bewilderment into which his unfortunate plunge had thrown him, he came up close to his rescuer and said,

“Mr Oldfield, I can’t thank you as I should, but I shan’t forget as you’ve saved my life.”

“All right, Jacob,” said Frank, laughing; “you’ll do the same for me when I want it, I don’t doubt.  But you have to thank our kind friends, the mate and his crew, as much as me, or we should have been pretty sure to have been both of us food for the fishes by this time.”

And so it was that the cabin-boy’s attachment to Frank Oldfield became a passion a love which many waters could not quench a love that was wonderful, passing the love of women.  Each day increased it.  And now his one earnest desire was to serve Frank on shore in some capacity, that he might be always near him.  Day by day, as the voyage drew to its close, he was scheming in his head how to bring about what he so ardently desired; and the way was opened for him.

It was in the middle of January, the height of the Australian summer, that the Sabrina came in sight of Kangaroo Island, and in a little while was running along the coast, the range of hills which form a background to the city of Adelaide being visible in the distance.  And now all heads, and tongues, and hands were busy, for in a few hours, if the tide should serve for their passing the bar, they would be safe in Port Adelaide.

“Well, Jacob; my lad,” said Captain Merryweather to the cabin-boy, as he stood looking rather sadly and dreamily at the land, “you don’t look very bright.  I thought you’d be mad after a run ashore.  Here comes the pilot; he’ll soon let us know whether we can get into port before next tide.”

When the pilot had taken charge of the ship, and it was found that there was water enough for them to cross the bar at once, the captain again called Jacob to him into the cuddy, where he was sitting with Hubert and Frank.

“I see, Jacob, my boy,” he said, “that there’s something on your mind, and I think I half know what it is.  Now, I’m a plain straightforward sailor, and don’t care to go beating about the bush, so I’ll speak out plainly.  You’ve been a good lad, and pleased me well, and if you’ve a mind to go home with me, I’ve the mind, on my part, to take you.  But then I see Mr Oldfield here has taken a fancy to you, and thinks you might be willing to take service with him.  Ah, I see it in your eyes, my lad that settles it.  I promised before we sailed that I’d find you a good situation out here, and I believe I’ve done it.  Mr Oldfield, Jacob’s your man.”

Poor Jacob; the tears filled his eyes his chest heaved he crushed his cap out of all shape between his fingers then he spoke, at first with difficulty, and then in a husky voice,

“Oh, captain, I’m afraid you’ll think I’m very ungrateful.  I don’t know which way to turn.  You’ve been very good to me, and I couldn’t for shame leave you.  I’d be proud to serve you to the last day of my life.  But you seem to have fathomed my heart.  I wish one half of me could go back with you, and the other half stay with Mr Oldfield.  But I’ll just leave it with yourselves to settle; only you mustn’t think, captain, as I’ve forgotten all your kindness.  I’m not that sort of chap.”

“Not a bit, my lad, not a bit,” replied the captain, cheerily; “I understand you perfectly.  I want to do the best for you; and I don’t think I can do better than launch you straight off, and let Mr Oldfield take you in tow; and if I’m spared to come another voyage here, and you should be unsettled, or want to go home again, why, I shall be right glad to have you, and to give you your wages too.”  And so it was settled, much to the satisfaction of Frank and the happiness of Jacob.