Into the Storm Read Online Free Page A

he touched was straw. It smelled sweet and clean. Plunging his hand down into the straw, he felt some crockery, grasped it, and pulled out a teacup.
    One by one he removed the cups and saucers — he took out a hundred all together — and stashed them individually and in groups about the hold, behind timbers, into nooks and crannies, anyplace he thought would be out of sight. By the time he was done, he was able to crawl into the barrel itself, press the straw down, and sink upon a scratchy but pleasant-smelling soft cushion. He found it quite roomy, big enough to allow him to sit comfortably if he drew up his legs.
    Pleased with what he’d achieved, Laurence stood up and drew the barrel lid partway over the opening. It was easy then to maneuver the lid atop the barrel and, even as he squatted down, to pull it back as it had been. He could only hope it was not noticeably open.
    Sitting in total darkness, Laurence took from his pocket the last of his bread squares and began to suck on it — on the alert for worms. As he ate, his thoughts drifted, and he tried to remember — for it seemed so long ago — when it was thathe had left his home. To his astonishment it was but three days past! Impossible. He counted the days again, and again. Three days…. Amazed, he shook his head.
    He thought then of his London house, where the rooms were so many. This is my room now, he said to himself, touching the side of the barrel. He made up his mind that each day the ship sailed, he would pretend the barrel was a different London room. He would start with his own room, recalling each and every object just as it had been … three days ago.
    He began by thinking about his bed in London. It was high. It was plump. It had lacy pillows…. By the time Laurence thought of the pillows, he was fast asleep.

 
    T he two staterooms on the Robert Peel could be found beneath the quarterdeck, near the stern of the ship. The rooms had no windows, though in each a large overhead oil lamp provided sufficient light. The woodwork — of well-fashioned mahogany, satinwood, and maple — was replete with carved scrolls and capitals, some even edged in gold. A washstand with saltwater pump, a chest of drawers, a writing desk supplied with paper and ink, a sofa, and two beds, one on either side of the room, made up the furniture. Everything, including a rug, was bolted down.
    â€œI rather like it,” Mr. Clemspool announced as he sat on one of the beds and kneaded the soft mattress with his fleshy fingers. “But then I deeply believe that if he pays a fair price, a gentleman should expect something decent. Don’t you think?”
    Mr. Grout lay stretched out upon his bunk, feeling miserable. His stomach was still queasy. His head was dizzy. “It’sbloody small and crowded if yer asks me,” the young man said between clenched teeth. “I could ’ave done much better in London at ’alf the price. And I wouldn’t be pitchin’ and rollin’ neither.”
    â€œAh, but, Mr. Grout, consider: Here you are, free from the restraints of your past. Far better than sitting in jail,” Mr. Clemspool suggested.
    â€œBeggin’ your pardon,” Mr. Grout said peevishly. “I wasn’t goin’ to no jail.”
    â€œNow, sir, let us not forget that money .” He looked slyly at his friend. “Where would you be, sir, without it?” The portly man smiled sweetly and looked about with a deadpan air. “I must confess,” he said, hastening to change the subject, “I do wish I’d had the time to gather my personal belongings.”
    â€œNo one said yer ’ad to come,” Mr. Grout replied, still smarting from his companion’s remark about jail. “Yer might ’ave gone back to London and done wot yer do. It would ’ave saved me a pretty penny.”
    â€œMe? Go back? Not I,” Mr. Clemspool returned. “That investigator