Jeff Benson, or the Young Coastguardsman | Page 2

Through the influence of a friend he was offered a situation in the coastguard; accepted it, and, to his great satisfaction, was stationed in the neighbourhood of Cranby, his native town.
Now, near to that town Jeff had a confidante, into whose sympathetic bosom he had poured his joys and sorrows from the days of little boyhood. Of course this confidante was a woman--a thin, little, elderly creature, with bright blue eyes, and grey hair that had once been golden, who had a sort of tremble in her voice, and whose frame was so light that the fishermen were wont to say of her that if she was to show her nose outside when it was blowing only half a gale she'd be blowed away like a fleck of foam. Nevertheless Miss Millet was a distinct power in Cranby.
Being off duty one fine afternoon, our coastguardsman walked along the beach in the direction of Cranby, bent on paying a visit to Miss Millet, whom he had not seen for several years. On his way he had to pass a piece of common close to the town, where he found that a number of the townsmen and some of the fishermen from the neighbouring hamlet had assembled to hold high holiday and engage in athletic exercises. The memory of school-days came strong upon him as he watched the sport, and he longed to join, but was modest enough to feel that his offering to do so in connection with games which seemed to have been already organised might be an intrusion.
Two men were wrestling when he joined the circle of spectators--one was a fisherman, the other a huge blacksmith of the town. They were well matched; for, although the fisherman was shorter than the blacksmith, he was an unusually powerful man.
Great was the excitement as the two herculean men strove for the mastery, and loud was the cheer when at last the blacksmith prevailed and threw his adversary.
But the enthusiasm was somewhat damped by the boastful manner in which the victor behaved; for it is not easy to sing the praises of a man whose looks and words show that he greatly overrates himself.
"You don't need to look so cocky, Rodger," cried a cynical voice in the crowd. "There be lots o' men as could throw thee, though they ben't here just now."
Rodger turned sharply round, intending to give an angry defiance to the speaker; but seeing that it was only Reuben Drew, a white-haired old shoemaker of small stature, he burst into a sarcastic laugh.
"Well, I don't deny," he said, "that there may be many men as could throw me, but I defy any of 'ee now present to do it."
This was an opening for Jeff Benson, who was not slow to avail himself of it. Stepping into the ring he threw off his coat.
"Come along, Rodger," he said, with a good-humoured look; "you'll have to make good your words."
Of course our hero was received with a cheer of satisfaction; for although Jeff was two inches shorter than his adversary--the latter being six feet two--it could be seen at a glance that he was at least his match in breadth of shoulder and development of muscle. But in truth the young coastguardsman was much more than the blacksmith's match, for at school he had received special training in the art of wrestling from his father, who was a Cornishman, and hard service in the coasting trade had raised his strength of limb to the highest possible point.
"Surely I've seen that young man somewhere," whispered one of the spectators to Reuben.
"So have I," returned the latter. "Don't he look uncommon like the old schoolmaster's son? Hallo!"
And well might Reuben exclaim "hallo!" for Jeff, instead of grasping his opponent round the waist, had suddenly seized him with one hand by the neck, with the other by the leg, and lifting him completely off the ground, had flung him on his back.
The people were too much astonished at first to cheer. They burst into a fit of laughter, which, however, extended into a hearty cheer when Reuben cried out, "It is Jeffrey Benson, as sure as I'm alive," and claimed him as a townsman.
"You're right, Reuben," said Jeff, as he put on his coat, "though I am a good bit changed, no doubt, since I was here last."
"Then the townsman have beaten the seaman after all," exclaimed one who was inclined to triumph.
"Not so," returned Jeff quickly, "for I'm a seaman myself and take sides with the fishermen."
"Well said; give us your hand, mate," cried John Golding, one of the latter, holding out his hand, which our hero grasped warmly, for he had known the man in former years.
"You've done well in credit o' the sea."
"An' better still," said little Reuben, "in doing credit