THE LOST CHILD.

Neil Brandon and Ben Lunder were soon ready to dine in the elegant mansion of Captain Patterdale, though the deck of the Ocean-Born was crowded with visitors from the shore, who had come off to see the beautiful craft. The cabins were thrown open to their inspection, and every attention was bestowed upon them by the officers and crew. The Sea Foam had been towed to Don John’s wharf early in the morning, and the boat-builder and his men were hard at work making a new mast for her, so that she could join the cruise of the clubs up the river.

“I beg your pawdon,” said a young man wearing a white “stove-pipe” hat, stepping up to Ben Lunder, as he came out of the cabin, dressed in black for the great occasion of the day.

The stranger was a young man of not more than nineteen. He was dressed in fashionably shaped garments, though one skilled in the draper’s art would have seen that the dry goods of which they were composed were of the cheapest material. The style was in the cut, rather than in the quality of the goods. The coat, pants, and vest were of a very light color--a cross between yellow and white. At a little distance they looked as if they were made of light-colored chamois skins. He wore white socks with patent leather shoes, and on his white “stove-pipe” hat was a weed not more than three inches wide, worn because it was the fashion, and not because he had “lost any friend,” or had any to lose. His neck-tie was of glaring red, “stunningly” ample, and as prominent to the view as a red light on a snowbound coast. He wore an immense vest chain, which, however, was composed of base metal, and in genteel society the owner never pulled out the second-hand silver watch attached to it, purchased at a pawn-broker’s for four dollars and twenty-five cents. Of course, the impression produced by this young gentleman when he dawned upon the vision of the beholder was tremendous. And yet he was a young man of great aspirations.

“I beg your pawdon,” said he, politely touching his white hat to the deck-hand of the Ocean-Born.

Ben surveyed him from head to foot; and residing most of the year in New York city, he knew the genus well.

“Well, my hearty, what can I do for you?” he replied, in a voice which seemed to come from the depths of his lower stomach.

“Am I wight in supposing that you belong to this--aw--this ship?” inquired the “swell,” with an effort.

“You aw--quite wight. I am the foreto’-starboard deck-hand of this ship. My name is Benjamin Lunder, otherwise Bounding Billow Ben, at your service. Who are you, my hearty?”

“I beg your pawdon: allow me to pwesent my cawd:” and the young gentleman gracefully offered the paste-board, which was big enough to be an invitation to a grand diplomatic ball in Paris, Vienna, or Berlin.

“Arthur McGusher, with Hewlins and Heavybones, Dry Goods, forty-nine twenty-eight Broadway, New York,” said Ben, reading from the card. “Aw, then you are a doo-wum-aw, Mr. Gush-aw?”

“No, saw; I am not a dwummaw, if by this wawd you mean a commawcial twaveller, as we call them in our house. I am a salesman, saw.”

“Glad to know you, Mr. McGusher. You look all right and tight about the toplights. I suppose you want to ship as a boiler-heaver or a lobster-boy?”

“No, saw,” protested Mr. McGusher, with a slight blush, and no little indignation in his tones. “I have no desiaw to ship.”

“I am glad of it, for we are all full just now.”

“I only wish to make an inquiwy.”

“An inquiwy!” exclaimed Ben. “What’s the use of making one, when you can buy them ready made? We have nineteen of them stowed away in the mizzen-run, with the main royal hatches battened down over them.”

“I beg your pawdon; I spoke of an inquiwy,” interposed the visitor.

“So did I, my hearty. You can’t play that on your uncle, who is an old salt, pickled down in four days of hard sea service,” added Ben, shaking his head.

“I beg your pawdon; I only wish to ask a question. Do you--”

“A question! You said you wanted to make an inquiry. I beg _your_ pardon, but you must speak in plain English to us old salts. We haven’t much larnin’ in shore things! ‘To be, or not to be,’--that’s the question.”

“Not exactly my question, Mr.--Mr.--”

“Bounding Billow Ben; that’s my name; and when I sneeze the salt spray flies.”

“I beg your pawdon, Mr. Bounding Bennow Bill,” said the visitor, with a soft smile.

“Bounding Bennow Bill! S’death, sir! Do you mean to insult me?”

“I beg your paw--”

“My paw shall fall upon you like a hurricane upon a flying-jib topsail, if you trifle with my name. I am a sailor, sir! I was cradled on the foamy brine--four days ago.”

“I weally beg your pawdon.”

“All right; now heave ahead, my hearty.”

“I beg your pawdon, but--”

“You did that once before. Now clear away your ground-tackle, let go your stunsail bobstay, overhaul your jib-boom, clap a jaw-tackle on your fore-stoppers, and let go that question,” blustered Ben.

“I beg you paw--”

“Stung in hays again! Good by, Mr. McGusher. It’s no use. Your yarn is longer than the hitch of the foreto’-bobstay;” and the deck-hand moved towards the accommodation steps, where the rest of the dinner party were waiting for him.

“I beg your pawdon--do you--”

“Don’t do it again, you beggar!”

“Make an end of it, Ben,” shouted Neil, on the quarter.

“Do you know Captain Bilder, Mr. Bounding Billow?” said the visitor, desperately.

“Bravo, Mr. McGusher! You have achieved it, like a good ship rolling into port with her sheets shaking, and her stunsail boom flying alow and aloft. Captain Bilder?” mused Ben. “Do you happen to have the other half-hitch of his cognominal appellation?”

“I beg your--”

“Come, now, don’t! That’s played out; it’s no longer original.”

“I did not quite undawstand you.”

“Stand by with your ear ports open tight. You spoke of Captain Bilder. I asked for the other half-hitch of his cognominal appellation?”

“His what?” gasped Mr. McGusher, aghast!

“His other half-hitch--the complementary portion of his cognominal appellation, you know.”

“Weally, Mr. Bounding Billow--”

“It’s no use; if you won’t answer me, I can’t keep the high and mighty captain of the Ocean-Born waiting for me.”

“I don’t undawstand you, Mr.--Billow.”

“O, you don’t! Well, I want Captain Bilder’s sky-scraper boom; the fore-hitch of his main-royal cognomen; the fore-royal smoke-stack of the after-mizzen boiler. Do you understand that?”

“I confess I do not; I am no sailaw;” replied the visitor, peacefully giving up the conundrum.

“I see you are not. What’s Captain Bilder’s other name?”

“O, Wichard!” exclaimed Mr. McGusher, smiling as sweetly as a rose in June, when Ben’s meaning dawned upon him.

“Wichard! Begins with a W--does it?”

“No, saw; not at all; Wichard begins with an R.”

“O, Richard! Richard’s himself again, as he ought to be if his name ever was Wichard. Captain Bilder was on board the Ocean-Born, but he hauled his wind, let go tacks and sheets, and bore away.”

“Bore away?” queried the visitor. “That means that he--”

“Precisely so, Mr. McGusher. You understand it perfectly,” added Ben, moving off.

“Bore away?” repeated the inquirer.

“Just as you do,” replied Ben, as a Parthian arrow.

“You don’t petter wait all day, Pen, ven we goes to meet mit die ladies--don’t you?” said Karl, as the deck hand leaped into the boat.

“Such a swell!” laughed Ben, as he took his place at the oar. “Now heave ahead at your weather skysail oar, Karl.”

The boat pulled for the shore, leaving Mr. Peter Blossom, dressed in his best clothes, in charge of the steamer. He was abundantly competent to do the honors of such an occasion; and he was as polite as half a dozen French dancing-masters.

“I beg your pawdon, but can you tell me where I may find Captain Bilder,” said Mr. McGusher, addressing the cook.

“He has gone on shore,” replied Mr. Blossom.

“You will find him at his house,” said one of the visitors, indicating the locality of the captain’s residence.

Mr. McGusher called his boatman, and embarked for the shore. As the party from the Ocean-Born will do very well at the elegant mansion of Captain Patterdale without any attention from us, we will go with the New York swell to the residence of Kate’s father; or rather we will go a little in advance, leaving him to find his way as best he can by inquiring.

Captain Bilder had told Kate all about it; that he was absolutely ruined in fortune; that he had lost everything, and was not worth a single dollar. He must give up his fine house to his creditors, sell his horses and carriages, and move into a humble tenement. Kate heard him with no little emotion; but she was a brave girl. She realized how much her father was suffering: how it grieved him to tell her that she could no longer live in an elegant house, ride behind a pair of horses, or even a single one. Her only thought was to comfort her father, and she told him she didn’t care a straw for herself; she was only sorry for him. Full of hope and courage, she was ready to grapple with the situation, which her age and experience did not fully fit her to understand.

“I can teach music, teach a school, or do something else to support myself, father,” said Kate.

“It hasn’t come to that yet, Kate, for I am still able to support you,” replied Captain Bilder, with a faint smile. “I have lost all my own property, but I have lost that of no other person. I am still an honest man, and my friends have not lost confidence in me. When I had lost all, I did not run in debt. When I have sold the horses, carriages, and furniture we no longer need, I hope to be able to pay all I owe in this city. Then I shall be a free man, though a poor one.”

“I am glad it is no worse,” added Kate.

“It is bad enough; but I am still an honest man, and I shall pay every dollar I owe.”

Some people would have regarded the honest captain as a sort of fanatic, because he paid the debts incurred in his speculation, rather than cheat his creditors or continue his operations after all his means were gone. No doubt he was a remarkably honest man for these degenerate times.

“What shall you do, father?” asked Kate.

“I shall go to sea again after I have closed my affairs here, or as soon as I can get a ship,” replied her father. “I am not an old man, and I hope to retrieve myself yet. I must find you a good place to board, and I hope you will make the best of our altered circumstances.”

“O, I shall, father! You need not worry about me.”

“I shall be happy if you are, my child,” added the captain, wiping away a tear, for he felt that the blow fell almost entirely on his daughter.

He was old and tough; she was young and tender, and had been brought up in affluence and luxury. It would be hard for her, and he wept only for her sake. They talked longer about the future, but at last the conversation turned upon the steamer which had brought Kate to her home.

“You said you used to call your little boy the Ocean-Born, father,” said Kate.

“I did, sometimes, as a pleasantry. He was born on the China Seas. I named him after my best friend, who was part owner of the ship in which I sailed; and his initials were those of ‘Ocean-Born,’” replied Captain Bilder. “However, anybody else may have used the term as well as I. It was more strange that the young man in charge of the steam-yacht should have had the name of my mate.”

“It is, certainly, very odd; and he says that Neil Brandon was his father’s name, as well as his own.”

“Perhaps his father was my mate,” mused Captain Bilder. “He was a good man in the main, but violent and revengeful at times. I will inquire into the matter when I see the young man again.”

“I have not heard you speak of my little brother for years, father,” continued Kate.

“You know the story, my child,” replied her father, with something like a shudder.

“Not the whole of it; or, at least, I have forgotten part of it,” she added; and perhaps the incidents of the steam yacht had given her some new idea.

“It is a very sad story, and the loss of the little boy was one of the most afflicting experiences of my whole life. It was only equalled at the death of your mother, when you were only three years old.”

“Won’t you tell me all about my little brother once more, and I never will ask you to do so again, for I know it is very sad to you?” asked Kate.

“Perhaps it is well that I should repeat the story to you, for I must go to sea again in a few weeks.”

Kate shuddered, for her father meant that he might never return, though he did not say this.

“I wish you to know all the facts in the case, and when you have time, I wish you would write them down, and let me correct the paper before I go away.”

“I will, father. I will take notes as you go along,” added the daughter, seating herself at the little cabinet desk in the library, where she wrote her school exercises and her letters.

“Your little brother’s name was Oscar Blake Bilder,” the captain began. “He was born, as I said, on the China Seas. I could give you the latitude and longitude by referring to my old log-books. You were born in New York, when Oscar was two years old. Your mother was never willing that I should leave her, even for a few weeks; but when I was to make a voyage around the world, she insisted upon going with me. My last voyages were in the Coriolanus. I owned half of her, and Oscar Blake the other half, and your mother went with me in her when you were only eighteen months old. She had a nurse for the children, whose name was Marguerite, a French woman, whom I engaged in New Orleans, where I loaded the Coriolanus with cotton for Liverpool. She was a capital nurse, and we thought everything of her.

“The mate of the ship was Neil Brandon. I shipped him in New York, and never knew where he belonged. I had a large, roomy cabin, and we were as happy at sea as we should have been on shore. Brandon had been my mate for two voyages before this one, and I had every confidence in him. He was the best mate I ever had till Marguerite came on board, and I had often told him he should be the master of the Coriolanus as soon as I left her, which I intended to do after this voyage. I soon discovered that he was enamoured of the nurse, who was always on deck with the children in fine weather. She was about twenty-five years old, and a very good girl indeed. The mate began to neglect his duties, and Marguerite to be less careful of the children. Between them both I was afraid that some accident would happen to you and your little brother. I sharply reproved Brandon; he did not take my rebuke kindly, but was sulky, cross, and indifferent about his duties. Finally, I removed him at Hong Kong, putting in his place the master of an Indiaman who had lost his ship in a typhoon. Brandon staid about the ship till we were ready to sail for home, and insisted upon returning in her. I told him he could make the voyage only as a seaman. He only desired to be near Marguerite; and this was the very thing I could not permit, for I felt that his presence endangered the lives of my children,--as your mother was then an invalid. I took him before the consul, and formally discharged him for insubordination and gross neglect of duty. I left him at Hong Kong, and though I never saw him again, I learned that he had arrived in New York three days before me when the Coriolanus reached that port. Before we parted, he swore he would ruin me.

“Captain Waters, who had come from China with me as my mate, wanted a ship, and I decided to give him the Coriolanus at New Orleans, where she was to load with cotton for Liverpool. I was obliged to go to New Orleans in order to settle up my business there. I wanted to leave your mother and the children in New York, but she would not think of a separation even for a month. She was in better health at sea than on shore, and felt quite at home in the cabin. During our stay in the great city, Marguerite was absent nearly every evening, and I have no doubt she met Brandon. We had a fine trip to New Orleans, but I saw that your mother was rapidly failing, and I was in a hurry to return to our home in New York, where I could obtain the best medical attendance for her. She preferred to go by steamer to Cincinnati, and we started.

“I had the two best state-rooms on the boat. Your mother and I had one, and you were with us; and the other was occupied by Marguerite and your little brother. On the first night of the trip, I was awakened at midnight by a shrill scream from the nurse. I rushed into her room, and found her crying, groaning, and tearing her hair like an insane person. Finally, she told me that your little brother was gone. She was nearly distracted, and so was I, for I could not make her tell me what had happened. I had seen my little boy in his berth at eight o’clock, and kissed him--it was the last time. After a while I wrung it out of Marguerite that she had got up to shut the door of the state-room,--for the evening had been intensely hot, and I had told her to leave it partly open. When she went to his berth to put more clothes on him, she found the boy was not there; and then she had screamed, she was so terrified. She had no idea what had become of him. She had retired herself at about ten o’clock, just as the boat was leaving a wood-yard, where it had stopped for half an hour to ‘wood up,’ and had immediately dropped asleep. The chill air, caused by a change in the weather, had waked her, she said; and this was all she knew about the matter.

“I called the captain, and I think every person on board was aroused by the search instituted for the little boy. He certainly was not on board of the steamer. The captain ran back to the wood yard where the boat had stopped. There was nothing there but the cabin of the woodman, and he had not seen the child, or any one else except the deck-hands of the steamer. Your little brother had either left his room and fallen into the river, or some one had stolen him. I shall not attempt to describe the anguish of your mother in her feeble condition, or my own sufferings as I thought of my darling boy. We left the boat when she arrived at Baton Rouge, the next morning, and I obtained a steamer with a force of twenty men, in order to renew the search. Not to dwell on the details, I spent a fortnight on the river. There was not a white man or a negro within twenty miles of that wood-yard who was not seen and questioned; but no clew whatever could be obtained to the lost child.

“I returned to New York only when the alarming condition of your mother’s health absolutely required; but I employed the best detectives in the country to continue the search. I thought if the boy had been drowned, his little form might be found: but it never was. If he had been stolen, it had been done in order to obtain money of me; but I was ready to give all that was asked to recover my darling child. I watched with this hope for years, but I have never heard anything to encourage me.”

“What do you think became of him, father?” asked Kate, breathless with interest.

“I have to believe that he was drowned, and that his little body was carried out to sea by the swift current, or, or--or that something else happened to it,” replied Captain Bilder, with a shudder; but he meant that it had been consumed by the fishes.

There was a pause for some time; but at last the captain went to a book-case and took from a drawer an envelope.