Strange as it still may appear to you that a little girl should have Courage for her name, yet, true it is, that she was no sooner named herself than she had a namesake. It was none of your little baby namesakes either, but a stanch and well-built boat, and one that was generally admitted to be the finest craft of her class in the harbor. The Courage Masterson was what is commonly known as a lighter, and to whom of course did she belong but to Larry Starr, Hugh Masterson's best friend; but she was no common lighter, I can assure you. Larry had given his whole mind to her building, and it was unlike any of the other lighters that make their way up and down the river or out on the bay, with their great cumbersome loads. She had a fine little cabin of her own, a cosey, comfortable cabin, with two state-rooms, if you can give them so fine a title, opening out of it, and a tiny kitchen beyond, lighted by a small sky-window. All this, as any one knows, was very luxurious, but Larry had put the savings of many years into that boat, and he meant to have it as he liked it. To be sure, the cabin, occupying as it did some twenty square feet, greatly lessened her carrying capacity, for one square foot on the deck of a lighter stands for innumerable square feet of merchandise, which may be piled to almost any height upon it. Larry was quite willing, however, to lose something from the profits of every trip for the sake of the added comfort. But it was six years now since the lighter had been launched, and so it had happened that all that time, while the little girl Courage had been having a variety of experiences on land, the big boat Courage had been sailing under “fair skies and foul” on the water, and safely transporting many a cargo that netted a comfortable living for Larry. And now Saturday afternoon had come, and Courage was down in her old place at the dock's end with a happy certainty in her eyes, and yet with a sorrowful look overshadowing it, for there was such sad news to be told when at last Larry should come, and at last he came.
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Courage first thought she discovered a familiar boat away down the river, and then in a moment there was no longer a doubt of it. The lighter, with her one broad sail spread to the wind, came slowly nearer and nearer, and Courage in her eagerness stood way out on the farthermost corner of the dock, so that Larry caught sight of her long before she put her two hands to her mouth, trumpet fashion, and called, “Hello there, Larry,” at the top of her strong little lungs.
“Hello there, Courage,” rang back Larry's cheery answer, as leaning hard against the tiller, he swung his boat into place with the skill of a long-time sailor.
“I knew you'd find out somehow that I was coming,” he called, and then in another second he was ashore and had Courage's two hands held fast in his, and was gazing gladly into her face. But instantly the look of greeting in her eyes faded out of them. She could find no words for the sad news she had to tell. Larry was quick to see her trouble, and his voice trembled as he asked, “Why, Courage, child, what has happened?” and then he drew her to a seat beside him on a great beam that flanked the wharf.
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It was easier to speak, now that she could look away from Larry's expressive face, and she said slowly, “The saddest thing that could happen, Larry. Papa——” and then she could go no further.
“You don't mean that your father is——” but neither could Larry bring himself to voice the fatal, four-lettered little word.
“Yes,” said Courage, knowing well enough that he understood her, “nearly three weeks ago. He had typhoid fever, and he tried very hard to get well, and we all tried so hard, Larry—the Doctor and Mary Duff and me—but the fever was the kind that wouldn't break. And then one day papa just said, 'It isn't any use, darling. I'm going to give up the fight and go to your blessed mother, but you need have never a fear, Courage, while Larry Starr is in the world.'”
“Did he say that really?” asked Larry, tears of which he was not ashamed rolling down his bronzed face.
“Yes,” said Courage solemnly; “but oh, Larry, I have been waiting here for so many days that I began to think perhaps you would never come, and if you hadn't come, Larry—” and then the recollection of all these hours of watching proved quite too much for her overwrought little frame, and burying her face in her hands on Larry's knee, she cried very bitterly.
“It is best,” thought Larry, “to let her have her cry out.” Besides he was not sure enough of his own voice to try to comfort her, so he just stroked the auburn hair gently with his strong hand, and said not a word. Meanwhile another old friend had come upon the scene, and stood staring at Larry and Courage with a world of questioning in his eyes. He seemed to have his doubts at first as to the advisability of coming nearer. He discovered, it was evident, that there was trouble in the air. That he was greatly interested, and fully expected to be confided in sooner or later, was also evident from the beseeching way in which he would put his head on one side and then on the other, looking up to Larry, as much as to say, “When are you going to tell me what it is all about?” But never a word from Larry and never a glance from Courage, till at last such ignominious treatment was no longer to be borne, and walking slowly up, he also laid his head upon Larry's knee. Courage felt something cold against her cheek and started up to find a pair of wonderfully expressive eyes raised beseechingly to hers. “Oh, Bruce, old fellow,” she cried, “I forgot all about you,” and then, flinging her arms about his neck, she literally dried her tears on his beautiful silky coat. But Bruce would not long be content with mere passive acceptance of affection, and in another second rather rudely shook himself free from her grasp, and began springing upon her, so that she had to jump to her feet and cry, “Down, Bruce,” three or four times before he would mind her; but Bruce was satisfied. Things could not have come to such a terrible pass if it took no more than that to make Courage seem her old self again, and finally, concluding that she really said “Down, Bruce,” quite as though she meant it, he decided to give his long legs a good run, and call on an old collie friend of his who picked up a living on Pier 17. Never, however, had visit of sympathetic friend proved as timely as this call of Bruce's. With what infinite tact had he first sympathized with and then tried to cheer his little friend! And he had succeeded, for both Larry and Courage now found themselves able to talk calmly of all that had happened, and of what had best be done.
“So you would like to come on the lighter with me for the summer,” said Larry somewhat doubtfully, after they had been conferring for some time together, and yet with his old face brightening at the thought.
Courage simply nodded her head in the affirmative, but her eyes said, “Oh, wouldn't I, Larry,” as plainly as words.
“And Mary Duff thinks it would be all right, too?”
“The very best thing for the summer, Larry.”
“Well then, bless your heart, you shall come; but how about next winter? Why, then I suppose I shall have to send you away to a school somewhere.”
Courage shrugged her shoulders rather ruefully.
“Perhaps,” she said; “but next winter's a long way off.”
“That's so,” said Larry, every whit as glad of the fact as was Courage herself. “And you said,” he continued, “that Mary Duff is going to care for that little lame Joe of John Osborne's.”
“Yes,” Courage answered, “though Mr. Osborne can't afford to pay her anything, as papa did for me; but she says she doesn't mind; if she only has her home and her board she can manage, and that it's just her life to care for motherless little children that need her.”
“Ah! but that Mary Duff's a good woman,” said Larry, and Courage mutely shook her head from side to side, as though it were quite hopeless to so much as attempt to tell how very good she was.
After awhile Larry went down to the boat to give some directions to his cabin-boy, Dick, and Courage went with him. When that was completed, a long shrill whistle brought Bruce bounding from some mysterious quarter, and the three started up the dock. The 'longshoremen were just quitting work as they neared them, and Larry paused to have a word with Big Bob and the other men whom he knew, Courage keeping fast hold of his hand all the while.
“Now she's got him she don't mean to let him go,” said one of the men as they passed on.
“I'd like to be in Larry's shoes, then,” muttered Big Bob, who led rather a lonely life of it, and would have been only too glad to have had such a little girl as Courage confided to his keeping.
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