Part 15 (1/2)

”I shall steer the boat,” a.s.serted Cornelius James presently, by way of restoring his shaken prestige.

”Oh, Corney, you can't,” said Jane. ”Casey always lets Georgie steer father's galley--you know he does. You're only saying that to show off.”

”'M not,” retorted Cornelius James. ”I'm a boy: girls can't steer boats. 'Sides, Georgie'll be sick.”

”Oh, I hope there'll be a band and dancing,” said Georgina rapturously.

”That's all you girls think about,” snorted a young gentleman of about her own age, with deep scorn. ”_I_ hope there'll be a shooting gallery, an' those ras'berry puffs with cream on top. . . .” His eye followed the pitching steamboats, fast drawing near. ”Anyhow, I hope there'll be a shooting gallery. . . . I say, it's rather rough, isn't it?”

The children, cloaked and m.u.f.fled in their wraps, watched the boats buffet their way sh.o.r.eward in clouds of spray. The parting injunctions of nurses and governesses fell on deaf ears. How could anyone be expected to listen to prompted rigmaroles about ”bread and b.u.t.ter before cake” and ”don't forget to say thank you for asking me” with the prospect of this brave adventure drawing so near?

Georgina, standing on tip-toe with excitement, suddenly emitted a shrill squeal of emotion. ”Oh! there's Mr. Mainwaring in the first boat!”

”Who's Mr. Mainwaring?” inquired a small girl with a white bow over one ear, secretly impressed by Georgina's obvious familiarity with the inspiring figure in the stern sheets of the picket-boat.

”_Dear_ Mr. Mainwaring!” repeated Georgina under her breath, gazing rapturously at her idol.

White Bow repeated her query.

”He's--he's Mr. Mainwaring,” replied Georgina. ”My Mr. Mainwaring.”

Which is about as much information as any young woman may reasonably be expected to give another who betrays too lively an interest in her beloved.

The Torpedo Lieutenant waved his arm in a gesture of indiscriminate greeting, and the children responded with a fluttering of hands and dancing eyes. The steam pinnace was following hard in the wake of the picket-boat.

Jane, with the far-seeing eye of love, recognised the occupant instantly. ”There's Mr. Standish,” she said. ”_My_ Mr. Standis.h.!.+”

The nurse of Georgina, Jane, and Cornelius James turned to the Providence that brooded over a small boy with a freckled face. ”Did you ever hear such children?” she asked in an aside. ”_Her_ Mr.

Standis.h.!.+ That's the way they goes on all day!”

The other nodded. ”Mine's like that, too; only it's our s.h.i.+p's Sergeant of Marines with him.” Master Freckles's choice in the matter of an idol had evidently not lacked the wise guidance of his nurse.

The boats swung alongside in the calm waters of the basin. The Torpedo Lieutenant handed his freight of frills and furbelows to the c.o.xswain's outstretched arms. The small boys to a man disdained the helping hand, but scrambled with fine independence into the stern sheets.

”Sit still a minute.” The Indiarubber Man counted. ”. . .

Eight--twelve! Hallo! Six absentees---- No, Corney, you can't steer, because I'm going to clap you all below hatches the moment we get outside.” He raised his voice, hailing the picket-boat. ”All right, Torps?” The Torpedo Lieutenant signified that they were all aboard the lugger, and off they went.

The nurses a.s.sembled on the end of the jetty waved their handkerchiefs with valedictory gestures; the wind caught their shrill farewells and tossed them contemptuously to where the gulls wheeled far overhead.

”My! Isn't it blowing!” said the small boy in freckles, indifferent to his nurse's lamentations of farewell. ”Look at Nannie's skirts, like a balloon. . . .”

”Yes,” agreed the Torpedo Lieutenant gravely. ”It's what's called a typhoon. I've only seen one worse, and that was the day I sailed in pursuit of Bill Blubbernose, the Bargee Buccaneer.”

Georgina cast him a glance of pa.s.sionate credence.

”Oh!” gasped Freckles, ”have you really chased pirates?” The Torpedo Lieutenant nodded. A certain three weeks spent in an open cutter off the coast of Zanzibar as a mids.h.i.+pman still remained a vivid recollection.

”Tell us about it,” said the children, and snuggled closer into the shelter of the Torpedo Lieutenant's long arms.

The steamboats drew near the s.h.i.+p, and in the reeling stern-sheets of the steam-pinnace the Indiarubber Man stood holding two small figures by the collars--two small figures whose heads projected far beyond the lee gunwale. They were Cornelius James and the young gentleman whose valiant soul had yearned for shooting galleries and eke raspberry puffs. And, horror of horrors! the little girls were laughing.

The picket-boat had no casualties to report, and as she went plunging alongside, the Junior Watchkeeper (in sea-boots at the bottom of the ladder) heard the Torpedo Lieutenant say: