Into the Storm Read Online Free Page B

— Mr. Pickler — made it perfectly clear that he was going to bring an action against me.”
    â€œFearful, are yer?”
    â€œTo be frank,” Mr. Clemspool admitted, “it was not him I feared. It was Mr. Pickler’s employer.”
    â€œWhich is why yer ’eadin’ for America.”
    Mr. Clemspool pondered the remark. Then, as much to himself as to Mr. Grout, he said, “But, to make my point precisely, perhaps I can strike back.”
    Mr. Grout raised himself on an elbow. “Wot’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œIs it not worth considering,” Mr. Clemspool asked, examining the idea even as he proposed it, “how Mr. Pickler’s venerated employer would react to the knowledge that his rude cur of an eldest son endeavored to send his second son out of England … permanently ?”
    Mr. Grout shook his head. “Wot was the boy’s name?”
    Mr. Clemspool considered. Then he said, “No harm in your knowing now. It was Sir Laurence Kirkle.”
    Mr. Grout sat bolt upright. “Kirkle!” he cried. “Of the government?”
    â€œThe same,” returned Mr. Clemspool smugly.
    â€œYer mad to touch that kind!”
    Mr. Clemspool plucked the air as if it contained an invisible harp. “He may rot at the bottom of a ditch for all I care.”
    â€œâ€™Ere! Do yer think ’e’s dead?”
    â€œI sincerely hope so,” Mr. Clemspool said.
    â€œThe dead can come back at yer,” Mr. Grout warned.
    â€œNonsense. Anyway, I am engaged upon a greater purpose. My new life. I suppose I could inform the boy’s father or —” He stopped short, his mouth open, his fingers extended.
    â€œOr wot?” Mr. Grout asked. The talk of death and ghosts had unnerved him.
    Mr. Clemspool snatched at the air as if it held the very answer he was looking for. “Yes! Perhaps it would be better if I communicated with the older brother, Sir Albert Kirkle.”
    â€œâ€™E the one who ’ired yer?”
    â€œHe was, indeed. Yes, I shall write Sir Albert and say I have his brother with me.”
    â€œBut yer don’t!”
    â€œOf course not, you fool! He’s in Liverpool, somewhere, thank goodness. But I will tell Sir Albert that I shall inform his father about his scheme — engaging me to dispose of Sir Laurence — unless he sends me a sum of money sufficiently large to cover my losses.”
    â€œBlackmail,” said Mr. Grout with a nod of his head.
    â€œSir!” Mr. Clemspool returned with a withering glance. “I do not engage in illegalities like some I might mention. No, I am merely desirous of finding some means of defraying losses that have been brought down about my innocent head. It will be no more than what he owes me.”
    â€œOne lump of money or a regular allowance like?”
    The question prompted a wide smile. “Mr. Grout, I do sometimes believe you can actually think! Indeed, it is always better to have a steady income. Such befits a gentleman.”
    â€œGentleman! Who yer talkin’ about now?”
    â€œMe.”
    Mr. Grout pushed himself up from his bed and snatched up his hat. “I needs to look about,” he announced, and, somewhat unsteady, went out of the room.
    Mr. Clemspool was quick to follow.

 
    M r. Grout groped his way up to the quarterdeck, to a room maintained for first-class gentlemen passengers. A small space, it contained little more than a U-shaped sofa — built into the walls — where passengers could smoke the cigars set out for them in a canister.
    Mr. Grout arrived with Mr. Clemspool at his heels. “Now see ’ere, Clemspool,” Mr. Grout said, his back braced against the wall and his one good eye fixed upon his companion, “yer do wot yer want in yer business. But I want nothin’ to do with it anymore. Messin’ ‘round with swells like the Kirkles ain’t smart. They’ve got ways to