Tom Pagdin, Pirate — Background and Themes

was grating gently on the pebbles at the South Side. Morning, gowned in silver grey, with trimmings of gold, still slept voluptuously on her divan in the Orient East. The mists were slowly lifting from the river, but hung yet lovingly along the creeks and upon the reedy lagoons.

Tom Pagdin, with his bare legs hanging over the rails of the punt, watched the cork floater of his fishing line sleepily. His bamboo rod cast a clear shadow in the water of the deep Broadstream. It was a new rod, cut some days before from the lower boundary of Henry Dobie’s garden. Old Tom Pagdin was not on speaking terms with Dobie, hence young Tom had taken that rod; at dusk, knowing that the particular commandment relating to the case was temporarily suspended.

Old Tom (cheerfully so-called by roystering fishermen) rented the Broadstream punt from the Government, which he regarded as his natural enemy. It was only at election times that Pagdin, senior, got anything like even with the Government, exercising the right of secret ballot against the sitting member behind his back, while pretending absolute fealty to his face. On these occasions the puntman invariably came home to the little shanty by the riverside glorious, and next day young Tom was usually too sore to sit down with any degree of comfort.

But the life of a boy on the Broadstream could not possibly be dull for long, and the thrashings which Tom Pagdin so regularly received at the hands of the ‘old man’ possibly gave greater relish to his pleasures.

In the Northern streams the perch bite best in the early morning, but it happened that the fish were dainty, or shy, and even the black cricket still kicking on the hook did not draw them.

So, when a waterhen came out on the broad green leaves of the lilies, which were just opening their purple flowers to the rising sun, Tom Pagdin let his rod drop gently in the water, drew his catapult from the pocket of his frayed trousers, fitted a carefully-chosen pebble in the sling, and let fly.

“Hit ’m!” he shouted, triumphantly, flicked the line out of the water, sprang to the handle of the windlass, and commenced to work the punt with all speed to the opposite side.

He was about midway across when the wheels of a milk-cart, en route to the creamery with full cans, grated down the edge, to an accompaniment of complaining brake echoes.

A red-headed boy, with a heavy cartwhip in his hand, was standing up in front throwing as much style into the driving as he knew.

“Ere!” he shouted, indignantly, “where y’ goin’ with that punt?”

Tom heard the hail, and looked back over his shoulder.

“Hold on a minute, can’t yer,” he howled. “I just peppered a coot; I’m goin’ acrost for him.”

The red-headed boy was interested immediately.

“Where is ’e, Tom?” he cried. “I can’t see ’im.”

“Can’t y’ see ’im kickin’?” shouted Tom, working vigorously at the handle; “’e’s in the lilies over ’ere.”

“Which side?” demanded the red-headed boy, excitedly. “Which side of the punt is he on?”

“Right-hand side. I’ve wounded him bad.”

“I spot ’im,” cried the boy in the cart. “I spot ’im. Hurry up, Tom; he’s goin’ to dive.”

“No he ain’t. He’s wounded too bad.”

“Yes he is. He’s going to dive. He’ll get away from yer.”

“’E can’t get away,” shouted Tom, perspiring violently.

The banks of the Broadstream at the crossing were not far apart, but the punt was heavy and slow.

“He _will_ get away!” cried the red-headed boy in a pained voice. “You’ve only broke his leg.”

Whereat he jumped out of the cart, picked up a handful of pebbles, and began shying them across stream.

“Let up!” yelled Tom Pagdin. “Let ’im alone; ’e’s my coot!”

A hunter who has mortally wounded an old man lion with his last cartridge could not have claimed possession with greater emphasis.

“He’ll get away,” pleaded the red-headed boy in extenuation. “You’ve only broke his leg.”

“’E won’t get away,” shouted Tom. “’E’s mortal wounded. You let up, Dave Gibson, or I’ll punch yer ’ead when I get acrost.”

The punt swung in close to the bank. Tom Pagdin let go the handle, stripped off pants and shirt, and plunged in after his quarry.