Read Online Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber by L. A. Meyer - Free Book Online Page B

Mitchell looks confused. “No, there was nothing untoward in that respect. However, we did play at cards, and the young lad, for all his fumbling inexperience, did come out the winner in the end.”
    â€œAnd he was most gracious about it—bought us our dinner, in fact,” adds Tull.
    â€œAs well she should—for it was with your own money she bought it!”
    â€œâ€˜She’?” they both mutter, aghast.
    â€œThe real Midshipman Wheeler is half a world away from here,” says Jared, collapsing into helpless laughter. “Do you realize who it was you broke bread with? Ha! You’re lucky you still have a penny in your pocket!”
    â€œYou don’t mean . . . ?”
    â€œYes, I do, and by God, I would have gladly exchanged the contents of my own purse to have been in your place, right next to Puss in Boots herself!”
    I think it would have gone something like that.
And I wish you the joy in the telling of it, Joseph. So, good night, you merry rogue
 . . .
    And good night, Jaimy, and Godspeed.

Chapter 7
    The next morning, I pop up bright and early. I know the coach-and-four headed to New York and points south leaves at nine, so I’ve got to be out of here by eight if I don’t want to continue to enjoy the company of Lieutenants Mitchell and Tull, well-meaning gents though they might be.
    After washing the sleep out of my eyes and doing the necessaries, I don my Lawson Peabody School attire—long white drawers with flounces, black stockings, white chemise top, black silk dress over all that, with black pumps on feet.
    I roll up the bottom of the dress and fasten it around my waist by tucking it under my money belt, then step into my oilskin trousers and tie up the drawstring. That secured, I don the oilskin jacket, put my midshipman cap back on my head, and pick up my seabag.
There. I will leave the Tail and Spout as I entered—as poor Jack the Sailor, a son of the sea, but now, alas, washed up on land.
    Down below, Gert stands wiping the bar in anticipation of the day’s business, and good smells are coming from the kitchen door behind her. A quick glance reassures me that my Royal Navy friends are not yet in evidence, which is good.
    â€œGood morning, lad,” booms out landlady Gert upon seeing me ready to head out. “You’ll not stay for breakfast? We’re having eggs, bangers, and mash.”
    â€œNay, Mum,” says I, truly sorry to have to pass up the eggs, but especially the sausage along with the potatoes mashed with garlic and onions, “for I must be off. Time and tide wait for no lad. Thank you, Missus, for your kind hospitality.”
    And I am off into the light of day. Seeing the southbound coach being loaded, I hurry up the street and out of sight, heading for the print shop. When I spot it, I dart back into a convenient alley, whip off my oilskin jacket, step out of the trousers, and release my skirt from its binding, letting it fall to my ankles. That done, I stuff the ’skins into my seabag, along with my midshipman’s cap, and then pull out my black lace mantilla. Reaching back, I pull the blue ribbon that binds up my pigtail and untangle my hair, letting it fall over my shoulders. It is a mess, but I’ll deal with it later. For now, I drape the mantilla over my head, letting one end hang down my front, and the other I whip around my neck. There. I have managed the transformation from sailor lad to young maiden, observed only by a yellow cat, who sits atop a garbage bin licking her paw, regarding me and my deceptions with profound indifference.
    Breathing a bit more easily, I quit the alley and head up the street toward the print shop. On my way, I turn to glance back down the street—sure enough, there are Lieutenants Mitchell and Tull, looking about in vain for the missing Midshipman Wheeler, and then shrugging and finally climbing into the coach. In a moment, both it and my