It was a bitterly cold night in January.  The wind was roaring across the flats and fens of Cambridgeshire, driving tiny flakes of snow before it.  But few people had been about all day, and those whose business compelled them to face the weather had hurried along, muffled up to the chin.  It was ten at night; and the porter and his wife at the workhouse, at Ely, had just gone to bed, when the woman exclaimed -  

“Sam, I hear a child crying.”

“Oh, nonsense!” the man replied, drawing the bedclothes higher over his head.  “It is the wind; it’s been whistling all day.”

The woman was silent, but not convinced.  Presently she sat up in bed.

“I tell you, Sam, it’s a child; don’t you hear it, man?  It’s a child, outside the gate.  On such a night as this, too.  Get up, man, and see; if you won’t, I will go myself.”

“Lie still, woman.  It’s all thy fancy.”

“You are a fool, Sam Dickson,” his wife said, sharply.  “Do you think I have lived to the age of forty-five, and don’t know a child’s cry, when I hear it?  Now are you going to get up, or am I?”

With much grumbling, the porter turned out of bed, slipped on a pair of trousers and a greatcoat, took down the key from the wall, lighted a lantern, and went out.  He opened the gate, and looked out.  There was nothing to be seen; and he was about to close the gate again, with a curse on his wife’s fancies, when a fresh cry broke on his ears.  He hurried out now and, directed by the voice, found lying near the gate a child, wrapped in a dark-colored shawl, which had prevented him from seeing it at his first glance.  There was no one else in sight.

Illustration - Sam Dickson finds little Willie Gale.

The man lifted his lantern above his head, and gave a shout.  There was no answer.  Then he raised the child and carried it in; locked the door, and entered the lodge.

“You are right, for once,” he said.  “Here is a child, and a pretty heavy one, too.  It has been deserted by someone; and a heartless creature she must have been, for in another half hour it would have been frozen to death, if you had not heard it.”

The woman was out of bed now.

“It is a boy,” she said, opening the shawl, “about two years old, I should say.

“Don’t cry, my boy ­don’t cry.

“It’s half frozen, Sam.  The best thing will be to put it into our bed, that has just got warm.  I will warm it up a little milk.  It’s no use taking it into the ward, tonight.”

Ten minutes later the child was sound asleep; the porter ­who was a good-natured man ­having gone over to sleep in an empty bed in the house, leaving the child to share his wife’s bed.

In the morning the foundling opened its eyes and looked round.  Seeing everything strange, it began to cry.

“Don’t cry, dear,” the woman said.  “I will get you some nice breakfast, directly.”

The kindness of tone at once pacified the child.  It looked round.

“Where’s mother?” he asked.

“I don’t know, dear.  We shall find her soon enough, no doubt; don’t you fret.”

The child did not seem inclined to fret.  On the contrary, he brightened up visibly.

“Will she beat Billy, when she comes back?”

“No, my dear, she sha’n’t beat you.  Does she often beat you?”

The child nodded its head several times, emphatically.

“Then she’s a bad lot,” the woman said, indignantly.

The child ate its breakfast contentedly, and was then carried by the porter’s wife to the master, who had already heard the circumstance of its entry.

“It’s of no use asking such a baby whether it has any name,” he said; “of course, it would not know.  It had better go into the infants’ ward.  The guardians will settle what its name shall be.  We will set the police at work, and try and find out something about its mother.  It is a fine-looking little chap; and she must be either a thoroughly bad one, or terribly pressed, to desert it like this.  Most likely it is a tramp and, in that case, it’s odds we shall never hear further about it.

“Any distinguishing mark on its clothes?”

“None at all, sir.  It is poorly dressed, and seems to have been very bad treated.  Its skin is dirty, and its little back is black and blue with bruises; but it has a blood mark on the neck, which will enable its mother to swear to it, if it’s fifty years hence ­but I don’t suppose we shall ever hear of her, again.”

That afternoon, however, the news came that the body of a tramp had been found, frozen to death in a ditch near the town.  She had apparently lost her way and, when she had fallen in, was so numbed and cold that she was unable to rise, and so had been drowned in the shallow water.  When the master heard of it, he sent for the porter’s wife.

“Mrs. Dickson,” he said, “you had better take that child down, and let it see the tramp they have found, frozen to death.  The child is too young to be shocked at death, and will suppose she is asleep.  But you will be able to see if he recognizes her.”

There was no doubt as to the recognition.  The child started in terror, when he saw the woman lying in the shed into which she had been carried.  It checked its first impulse to cry out, but struggled to get further off.

“Moder asleep,” he said, in a whisper.  “If she wake, she beat Billy.”

That was enough.  The woman carried him back to the house.

“She’s his mother, sir, sure enough,” she said to the master, “though how she should be puzzles me.  She is dressed in pretty decent clothes; but she is as dark as a gypsy, with black hair.  This child is fair, with a skin as white as milk, now he is washed.”

“I daresay he takes after his father,” the master ­who was a practical man ­said.  “I hear that there is no name on her things, no paper or other article which would identify her in her pockets; but there is two pounds, twelve shillings in her purse, so she was not absolutely in want.  It will pay the parish for her funeral.”

An hour later the guardians assembled and, upon hearing the circumstances of the newcomer’s admission, and the death of the tramp, they decided that the child should be entered in the books as “William Gale,” ­the name being chosen with a reference to the weather during which he came into the house ­and against his name a note was written, to the effect that his mother ­a tramp, name unknown ­had, after leaving him at the door of the workhouse, been found frozen to death next day.

William Gale grew, and throve.  He was a quiet and contented child; accustomed to be shut up all day alone, while his mother was out washing, the companionship of other children in the workhouse was a pleasant novelty and, if the food was not such as a dainty child would fancy, it was at least as good as he had been accustomed to.

The porter’s wife continued to be the fast friend of the child whom she had saved from death.  The fact that she had done so gave her an interest in it.  Her own children were out in service, or at work in the fields; and the child was a pleasure to her.  Scarce a day passed, then, that she would not go across the yard up to the infants’ ward, and bring Billy down to the lodge; where he would play contentedly by the hour, or sit watching her, and sucking at a cake, while she washed or prepared her husband’s dinner.

Billy was seldom heard to cry.  Perhaps he had wept all his stock of tears away, before he entered the house.  He had seldom fits of bad temper, and was a really lovable child.  Mrs. Dickson never wavered in the opinion she had first formed ­that the dead tramp was not Billy’s mother ­but as no one else agreed with her, she kept her thoughts to herself.

The years passed on, and William Gale was now no longer in the infants’ ward, but took his place in the boys’ school.  Here he at once showed an intelligence beyond that of the other boys of his own age.  The hours which he had, each day, spent in the porter’s lodge had not been wasted.  The affection of the good woman had brightened his life, and he had none of the dull, downcast look so common among children in workhouses.  She had encouraged him to talk and play, had taught him the alphabet, and supplied him with an occasional picture book, with easy words.  Indeed, she devoted far more time to him than many mothers, in her class of life, can give to their children.

The guardians, as they went in and out to board meeting, would delight her by remarking -  

“That is really a fine little fellow, Mrs. Dickson.  He really does you credit.  A fine, sturdy, independent little chap.”

The child, of course, wore the regular uniform of workhouse children; but Mrs. Dickson ­who was handy with her needle ­used to cut and alter the clothes to fit him, and thus entirely changed their appearance.

“He looks like a gentleman’s child,” one of the guardians said, one day.

“I believe he is a gentleman’s child, sir.  Look at his white skin; see how upright he is, with his head far back, as if he was somebody.  He is different, altogether, from the run of them.  I always said he came of good blood, and I shall say so to my dying day.”

“It may be so, Mrs. Dickson; but the woman who left him here, if I remember right, did not look as if she had any good blood in her.”

“Not likely, sir.  She never came by him honestly, I am sure.  I couldn’t have believed she was his mother, not if she had sworn to it with her dying breath.”

Mrs. Dickson’s belief was not without influence upon the boy.  When he was old enough to understand, she told him the circumstances of his having been found at the workhouse door, and of the discovery of the woman who had brought him there; and impressed upon him her own strong conviction that this was not his mother.

“I believe, Billy,” she said, over and over again, “that your parents were gentlefolk.  Now mind, it does not make one bit of difference to you, for it ain’t likely you will ever hear of them.  Still, please God, you may do so; and it is for you to bear it in mind, and to act so as ­if you were to meet them ­they need not be ashamed of you.  You have got to earn your living just like all the other boys here; but you can act right, and straight, and honorable.

“Never tell a lie, Billy; not if it’s to save yourself from being thrashed ever so much.  Always speak out manful, and straight, no matter what comes of it.  Don’t never use no bad words, work hard at your books, and try to improve yourself.  Keep it always before you that you mean to be a good man, and a gentleman, some day and, mark my words, you will do it.”

“You’re spoiling that child,” her husband would say, “filling his head with your ridiculous notions.”

“No, I am not spoiling him, Sam.  I’m doing him good.  It will help keep him straight, if he thinks that he is of gentle blood, and must not shame it.  Why, the matron said only yesterday she could not make him out, he was so different from other boys.”

“More’s the pity,” grumbled the porter.  “It mayn’t do him harm now ­I don’t say as it does; but when he leaves the house he’ll be above his work, and will be discontented, and never keep a place.”

“No, he won’t,” his wife asserted stoutly; although, in her heart, she feared that there was some risk of her teaching having that effect.

So far, however, there could be no doubt that her teaching had been of great advantage to the boy; and his steadiness and diligence soon attracted the attention of the schoolmaster.  Schoolmasters are always ready to help pupils forward who promise to be a credit to them, and William Gale’s teacher was no exception.  He was not a learned man ­very far from it.  He had been a grocer who had failed in business and, having no other resource, had accepted the very small salary offered, by the guardians of Ely workhouse, as the only means which presented itself of keeping out of one of the pauper wards of that institution.  However, he was not a bad reader, and wrote an excellent hand.  With books of geography and history before him, he could make no blunders in his teaching; and although he might have been failing in method, he was not harsh or unkind ­and the boys, therefore, learned as much with him as they might have done with a more learned master, of a harsher disposition.

He soon recognized not only William’s anxiety to learn, but the fearlessness and spirit with which he was always ready to own a fault, and to bear its punishment.  On several occasions he brought the boy before the notice of the guardians, when they came round the school and, when questions had to be asked before visitors, William Gale was always called up as the show boy.

This prominence would have made him an object of dislike, among the other lads of his own age; had it not been that William was a lively, good-tempered boy; and if, as sometimes happened on these occasions, a sixpence or shilling was slipped into his hand by some visitor, who was taken by his frank open face and bright intelligent manner, it was always shared among his school fellows.

At one of the examinations the wife of a guardian, who was present with her husband, said on returning home -  

“It must be very dull for those poor boys.  I will pack up some of the boys’ books, and send them.  Now they have gone to college, they will never want them again; and they would make quite a library for the workhouse boys.  There must be twenty or thirty of them, at least.”

If ladies could but know what brightness they can infuse into the lives of lads, placed like these in Ely workhouse, by a simple act of kindness of this kind, there would not be an institution in the kingdom without a well-supplied library.  The gift infused a new life into the school.  Hitherto the world outside had been a sealed book to the boys.  They knew of no world, save that included within the walls of the house.  Their geography told them of other lands and people, but these were mere names, until now.

Among the books were Robinson Crusoe, Midshipman Easy, Peter Simple, three or four of Cooper’s Indian tales, Dana’s Life before the Mast, and several of Kingston’s and Ballantyne’s books.  These opened a wonderland of life and adventure to the boys.  The schoolmaster used to give them out, at twelve o’clock; and they were returned at two, when school recommenced; and only such boys as obtained full marks for their lessons were allowed to have them.  In this way, instead of the library being a cause of idleness ­as some of the guardians predicted, when they heard of its presentation ­it was an incentive to work.

Certainly its perusal filled the minds of most of the boys with an intense longing to go to sea but, as there is always a demand for apprentices for the Yarmouth and Lowestoft smacks, the guardians did not disapprove of this bent being given to their wishes ­indeed, as no premium had to be paid, with apprentices to smack owners, while in most trades a premium is required, a preference was given to the sea by the guardians.

When William Gale reached the age of fifteen, and was brought before the board to choose the trade to which he would be apprenticed, he at once said that he would go to sea.  There were applications from several smack masters for apprentices; and he, with the five other boys brought up with him, were all of one opinion in the matter.

“Mind, lads,” the chairman said, “the life of an apprentice on board a North Sea smack is a hard one.  You will get a great many more kicks than half pence.  It will be no use grumbling, when you have once made your choice.  It is a rough, hard life ­none rougher, or harder.  When you have served your time, it will be open to you either to continue as smacksmen, or to ship as seamen in sea-going ships.

“Sailors who hail from the eastern fishing ports are always regarded as amongst the best of our seamen.  Still, it is a rough life, and a dangerous one.  The hardest life, on shore, is easy in comparison.  There is time to change your minds, before you sign; when you have done so, it will be too late.  Are you all determined?”

None of them wavered.  Their signatures were attached to the indentures, and they were told that the porter would take them to Yarmouth, on the following day.  William Gale obtained leave to spend his last evening at the porter’s lodge, and there he talked very seriously, with Mrs. Dickson, over his future prospects.

“I know,” he said, “from Dana’s book, that the life is a very rough one, but that will not matter.  A sailor, when he has been four years at sea, can pass his examination as a mate; and I mean to work hard, and pass as soon as I can.  I don’t care how much I am knocked about, that’s nothing; there’s a good chance of getting on, in the end.”

“You will meet a great many bad boys, Bill; don’t you let them lead you into their ways.”

“Don’t be afraid of that,” he answered, “I won’t do anything I should be ashamed of, afterwards.  You have taught me better.”

“I suppose the guardians gave you a Bible, today; they always do, when boys goes out.”

Will nodded.

“Be sure you read it often, my boy.  You read that, and stick to it, and you won’t go far wrong.  You know what the parson said, last Sunday -  

“‘No one is strong in himself, but God gives strength.’”

“I remember,” Will said.  “I made up my mind, then, that I’d bear it in mind, and act upon it when I could.  I think the thought of God, and the thought that I may meet my parents ­and they must not be ashamed of me ­will help me to be honest, and firm.”

“I hope, Bill, you will come, sometimes, and see me, when you are ashore.”

“I shall be sure to do that, when I can,” he answered.  “But of course, I shall have no money, at first; and it may be a long time before I can pay my railway fare here; but you may be sure I will come.  Whoever may be my real mother, you are the only mother I ever knew, and no mother could have been kinder.  When I grow to be a man, and go to sea in big ships, I will bring you all sorts of pretty things from abroad and, if ever you should want it, you may be sure that my wages will be quite as much yours as if I had been, really, your son!”

Sam Dickson gave a snort.  It was very good of the boy, but he considered it his duty to snub him, in order to counteract what he considered to be the pernicious counsels and treatment of his wife.

“Fine talk,” he said, “fine talk.  We shall see.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Sam Dickson,” his wife said, wrathfully.  “The boy means what he says, and I believe him.  If anything was to happen to you, and that boy was growed up, I believe he would come forward to lend me a helping hand, just as he says, as if he were my son.  The gals is good gals, but gals in service have plenty to do with their wages ­what with dress, and one thing or another.  We must never look for much help from them but, if Bill is doing well, and I ever come to want, I believe as his heart would be good to help, a bit.”

“Well,” the porter said, dryly, “there’s time enough to see about it, yet.  I ain’t dead, you ain’t a pauper, and he ain’t a man, not by a long way.”

“Well, you needn’t go to be short tempered over it, Sam.  The boy says as he’ll be as good as a son to me, if the time ever comes as how I may want it.  There is no call for you to fly out, as if he’d said as he’d poison me, if he’d the chance.

“Anyhow, you’ll write to me regular, won’t you, Bill?”

“That I will,” the boy said.  “Every time I gets back to port, I’ll write; and you’ll write sometimes, won’t you?  And tell me how you are, and how every one is, schoolmaster and all.  They have all been very kind to me, and I have nothing to say against any of them.”

The next morning William Gale laid aside, for ever, his workhouse dress; and put on a suit of rough blue cloth, fitted for his future work.  Then, bidding adieu to all his friends, he ­with his five fellow apprentices ­started by rail, under charge of Sam Dickson, for Yarmouth.

The journey itself was, to them, a most exciting event.  They had, in all their remembrance, never been a mile from the workhouse; and the swift motion of the train, the changing scenery, the villages and stations, were a source of immense interest.  As they neared Yarmouth their excitement increased, for now they were nearing the sea; of which they had read so much, but could form so little idea.  They were disappointed, however, inasmuch as no glimpse was obtained of it, as they crossed the flat country leading to the town but, failing the sea, Yarmouth itself ­the town which was henceforth to be their headquarters ­was in the highest degree interesting.

Presently the train reached the station, and then Sam Dickson ­who had made many annual journeys to Yarmouth, on the same errand ­at once started off with them to the smack owners who had written to the workhouse.  These lived at Gorleston, a large village on the south side of the river.  Walking down from the station, the boys caught a glimpse of the river, and were delighted at the sight of the long line of smacks, and coasters, lying by the wharves opposite.

Presently they left the road, and made their way down to the river side.  Their guardian had great difficulty in getting them along, so interested were they in the smacks lying alongside.  Presently they stopped at a large wooden building, over which was the name of “James Eastrey.”

“Here we are,” Sam Dickson said.  “Now, stop quietly outside.  I will call three of you up, when I have spoken to Mr. Eastrey.”

Presently the porter re-appeared at the door, and called three of the boys in.  William Gale was one of the number, James Eastrey being the name of the owner to whom he had signed his indentures.

A smell of tar pervaded the whole place.  Nets, sails, and cordage were piled in great heaps in the store; iron bolts and buckets, iron heads for trawls, and ship’s stores of all kinds.

Mr. Eastrey came out from a little wooden office.

“So,” he said, “you are the three lads who are going to be my apprentices.  Well, boys, it is a rough life but, if you take the ups and downs as they come, it is not a bad one.  I always tell my captains to be kind to the boys but, when they are at sea, they do not always act as I wish them.  When you are on shore, between the voyages, I give you eight shillings a week, to keep yourselves; or I put you in the Smack Boys’ Home, and pay for you there.  The last is the best place for you, but some boys prefer to go their own way.

“I suppose you are all anxious to go to sea ­boys always are, for the first time.  One of my boats is going out, tomorrow.

“You,” he said, pointing to William Gale, “shall go in her.  What is your name?”

“William Gale, sir.”

“Very well, William Gale, then you shall be off first.  The others will only have a day or two to wait.

“I can only send one new hand in each smack.  The others will go to the Home, till the smacks are ready.  I will send a man with them, at once.  They can have a day to run about the town.  I shall find plenty of work for them, afterwards.

“You, Gale, will stop on the smack.  I will take you on board, in half an hour, when I have finished my letter.”

The three lads said goodbye to their comrades and to Sam Dickson.  A sailor was called up, and took two off to the Smack Boys’ Home; and Will Gale sat down on a coil of rope, to wait till his employer was ready to take him down to the craft to which he was, henceforth, to belong.