My Stowaway

"My Stowaway" by Robert Barr is an adventurous tale that follows the escapades of a young boy who hides aboard a ship bound for the far-off destination of South Africa. As he navigates the challenges of life at sea, he encounters a variety of colorful characters and experiences thrilling adventures. Through humor and resourcefulness, the boy learns valuable lessons about friendship, bravery, and the spirit of exploration. The story is infused with Barr's signature wit and charm, making it an engaging read for both young and adult audiences.

• Travel

								
“Ye can play yer jokes on Nature,
    An’ play ’em slick,
She’ll grin a grin, but, landsakes, friend,
    Look out fer the kick!”

One night about eleven o’clock I stood at the stern of that fine
Atlantic steamship, the City of Venice, which was ploughing its way
through the darkness towards America. I leaned on the rounded bulwark
and enjoyed a smoke as I gazed on the luminous trail the wheel was
making in the quiet sea. Some one touched me on the shoulder, saying,
“Beg pardon, sir;” and, on straightening up, I saw in the dim light a
man whom at first I took to be one of the steerage passengers. I
thought he wanted to get past me, for the room was rather restricted in
the passage between the aft wheelhouse and the stern, and I moved
aside. The man looked hurriedly to one side and then the other and,
approaching, said in a whisper, “I’m starving, sir!”

“Why don’t you go and get something to eat, then? Don’t they give you
plenty forward?”

“I suppose they do, sir; but I’m a stowaway. I got on at Liverpool.
What little I took with me is gone, and for two days I’ve had nothing.”

“Come with me. I’ll take you to the steward, he’ll fix you all right.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” he cried, trembling with excitement. “If you speak to
any of the officers or crew I’m lost. I assure you, sir, I’m an honest
man, I am indeed, sir. It’s the old story—nothing but starvation at
home, so my only chance seemed to be to get this way to America. If I’m
caught I shall get dreadful usage and will be taken back and put in
jail.”

“Oh, you’re mistaken. The officers are all courteous gentlemen.”

“Yes, to you cabin passengers they are. But to a stowaway—that’s a
different matter. If you can’t help me, sir, please don’t inform on
me.”

“How can I help you but by speaking to the captain or purser?”

“Get me a morsel to eat.”

“Where were you hid?”

“Right here, sir, in this place,” and he put his hand on the square
deck-edifice beside us. This seemed to be a spare wheel-house, used if
anything went wrong with the one in front. It had a door on each side
and there were windows all round it. At present it was piled full of
cane folding steamer chairs and other odds and ends.

“I crawl in between the chairs and the wall and get under that piece of
tarpaulin.”

“Well, you’re sure of being caught, for the first fine day all these
chairs will be taken out and the deck steward can’t miss you.”

The man sighed as I said this and admitted the chances were much
against him. Then, starting up, he cried, “Poverty is the great crime.
If I had stolen some one else’s money I would have been able to take
cabin passage instead of—”

“If you weren’t caught.”

“Well, if I were caught, what then? I would be well fed and taken care
of.”

“Oh, they’d take care of you.”

“The waste food in this great ship would feed a hundred hungry wretches
like me. Does my presence keep the steamer back a moment of time? No.
Well, who is harmed by my trying to better myself in a new world? No
one. I am begging for a crust from the lavish plenty, all because I am
struggling to be honest. It is only when I become a thief that I am out
of danger of starvation—caught or free.”

“There, there; now, don’t speak so loud or you’ll have some one here.
You hang round and I’ll bring you some provender. What would you like
to have? Poached eggs on toast, roast turkey, or—”

The wretch sank down at my feet as I said this, and, recognising the
cruelty of it, I hurried down into the saloon and hunted up a steward
who had not yet turned in. “Steward,” I said, “can you get me a few
sandwiches or anything to eat at this late hour?”

“Yessir, certainly, sir; beef or ’am, sir?”

“Both, and a cup of coffee, please.”

“Well, sir, I’m afraid there’s no coffee, sir; but I could make you a
pot of tea in a moment, sir.”

“All right, and bring them to my room, please?”

“Yessir.”

In a very short time there was that faint steward rap at the state-room
door and a most appetising tray-load was respectfully placed at my
service.

When the waiter had gone I hurried up the companion-way with much the
air of a man who is stealing fowls, and I found my stowaway just in the
position I had left him.

“Now, pitch in,” I said. “I’ll stand guard forward here, and, if you
hear me cough, strike for cover. I’ll explain the tray matter if it’s
found.”

He simply said, “Thank you, sir,” and I went forward. When I came back
the tray had been swept clean and the teapot emptied. My stowaway was
making for his den when I said, “How about to-morrow?”

He answered, “This’ll do me for a couple of days.”

“Nonsense. I’ll have a square meal for you here in the corner of this
wheel-house, so that you can get at it without trouble. I’ll leave it
about this time to-morrow night.”

“You won’t tell any one, any one at all, sir?”

“No. At least, I’ll think over the matter, and if I see a way out I’ll
let you know.”

“God bless you, sir.”

I turned the incident over in my mind a good deal that night, and I
almost made a resolution to take Cupples into my confidence. Roger
Cupples, a lawyer of San Francisco, sat next me at table, and with the
freedom of wild Westerners we were already well acquainted, although
only a few days out. Then I thought of putting a supposititious case to
the captain—he was a thorough gentleman—and if he spoke generously
about the supposititious case I would spring the real one on him. The
stowaway had impressed me by his language as being a man worth doing
something for.

Nest day I was glad to see that it was rainy. There would be no demand
for ship chairs that day. I felt that real sunshiny weather would
certainly unearth, or unchair, my stowaway. I met Cupples on deck, and
we walked a few rounds together.

At last, Cupples, who had been telling me some stories of court trials
in San Francisco, said, “Let’s sit down and wrap up. This deck’s too
wet to walk on.”

“All the seats are damp,” I said.

“I’ll get out my steamer chair. Steward,” he cried to the deck steward
who was shoving a mop back and forth, “get me my chair. There’s a tag
on it, ‘Berth 96.’”

“No, no,” I cried hastily; “let’s go into the cabin. It’s raining.”

“Only a drizzle. Won’t hurt you at sea, you know.”

By this time the deck steward was hauling down chairs trying to find
No. 96, which I felt sure would be near the bottom. I could not control
my anxiety as the steward got nearer and nearer the tarpaulin. At last
I cried—

“Steward, never mind that chair; take the first two that come handy.”

Cupples looked astonished, and, as we sat down, I said—

“I have something to tell you, and I trust you will say nothing about
it to any one else. There’s a man under those chairs.”

The look that came into the lawyer’s face showed that he thought me
demented; but, when I told him the whole story, the judicial expression
came on, and he said, shaking his head—

“That’s bad business.”

“I know it.”

“Yes, but it’s worse than you have any idea of. I presume that you
don’t know what section 4738 of the Revised Statutes says?”

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