“And was losht in the rolling sea,”
“And was losht in the rolling sea,”
“And was losht in the rolling sea,”
murmured Gilbot, his head fell forward on his chest and his pot, slipping off his knee, fell clattering on the stones. The noise woke him, and he looked up just in time to see Pullen, knife in hand, standing in the middle of the room.
“Eh? eh?” the old man’s voice had the remnant of a note of authority in it. “Put down t’ knife, lad. Ain’t no good in knives.” His head fell forward on his chest again. “Why not shing happy shong?” he mumbled.
Joe grinned. “Ah,” he said slowly, “maybe the old’n’s right.” He handed the knife to the Spaniard who took it without a word. “I might have hit you—I ain’t a very good hand wi’ knives,” he said pleasantly.
The Spaniard smiled graciously. “Doubtless you will learn,” he said, his jauntiness returning, and then continuing, “Fair Mistress Anny, will you see these tapped?” and he pointed to five rum kegs which Blueneck, Habakkuk Coot, and one or two others of theColdlight’screw had just brought in. “Rum all round,” he said, “and the charge to me.”
By the time his last command had been obeyed, the company in the Ship was more noisy than before, and, answering to the call for a song, old Gilbot, having been assisted to his feet, leaned his backagainst the nearest ale barrel and quavered forth in a voice which evidently had once been very tuneful:
“Oh, no one remembers poor WillWho shtayed by hish mate at the mill;He ground up more boneshThan barley or stonesh,And more than old Rowley could kill.”
“Oh, no one remembers poor WillWho shtayed by hish mate at the mill;He ground up more boneshThan barley or stonesh,And more than old Rowley could kill.”
“Oh, no one remembers poor WillWho shtayed by hish mate at the mill;He ground up more boneshThan barley or stonesh,And more than old Rowley could kill.”
“More bones, more bones,” roared the company as the rum flowed more freely.
“More bones! more bones!And more than old Rowley could kill.”
“More bones! more bones!And more than old Rowley could kill.”
“More bones! more bones!And more than old Rowley could kill.”
“Ah, ha, may the Lord bless ye, fine gentlemen, and could ye spare a drop o’ rum for a poor woman to take to her man who’s dying o’ the cold?”
This request, uttered in a high-pitched whining voice coming from just behind the half-opened door, startled the revellers and they paused to listen, all eyes being fastened on the door. They watched it open a little farther, and round it just below the latch appeared the head of an old woman. The face, red and coarse, smiled leeringly, and the gray elf locks above it were matted and ill-kempt.
Anny, who was standing near Black’erchief Dick, caught her breath.
“Lord! ’Tis Pet Salt,” she whispered as she shrank against the table.
The Spaniard dropped a hand over hers unnoticedby any one save Hal—“Why shudderest thou, wench?” he said softly. Anny slipped her hand away.
“’Tis naught,” she said.
“Will ’ee spare a little rum, fair gentlemen?”
The old woman came a little farther into the room, disclosing a body so bent and twisted as to be hardly human. She came nearer, the firelight flickered on her, and a murmur rose from the company, she was so ragged and scarred. The Spaniard looked at her critically, then he turned to French.
“You have strange crones up this part of the Island, friend,” he observed.
French laughed.
“Oh, this one won’t treat your almsgiving the way Nan Swayle did,” he said.
At the sound of the name, Nan Swayle, an extraordinary change came over the terrible old figure in the firelight. She straightened herself with a fearful effort and, her small eyes blazing with fury, broke forth into such a stream of horrible epithets that the rough company of the Ship looked at one another shamefacedly.
“Peace, hag,” the Spaniard strode out from the crowd and touched the old woman with the tip of his forefinger.
Pet Salt stopped, and, seeing the gaudy figure in front of her, fell on her knees and holding up a fat, begrimed hand recommenced her whining.
Dick stood there for a second or two, and thenturned his head. “Blueneck,” he said, “bring out a small rum keg.”
The old woman fell snivelling at his feet.
The Spaniard kicked her gently.
“O mother of many evils,” he said, “get thee out of this room with thy keg, methinks the air stinks with thee.”
Blueneck stepped forward, jerked the woman to her feet, and put the rum on the floor beside her. Mumbling blessings, thanks, and curses, she stumbled out of the open door, the keg clasped in her arms.
Dick watched her go and then turning to Sue: “Mistress, I would wash my hands,” he said, looking at the tip of his forefinger.
Sue ran to get water and the company began to break up for the night.
“Good-night to ’ee,” shouted Hal, as Joe Pullen went out, “may thy wife be sleeping sound.”
“Would she were sleeping with a heavenly soundness, mate,” replied the other as he shut the door behind him.
The crew of theColdlightwent off in a body to their ship, rolling and singing happily.
Sue and Hal assisted the old landlord to his room, a nightly duty of theirs, and Anny flitted about getting candles for the visitors.
Dick looked at Big French as they stood for a moment alone together before the dying fire.
“Methinks thy horses will not have recovered from their lameness by to-morrow, friend French,” he said, as Anny, two lighted candles in her hand, appeared at an inner doorway.
French followed the direction of the other’s eyes, then he shrugged his broad shoulders.
“As you wish, Captain,” he said carelessly, and wondered why the Spaniard should laugh so triumphantly at his answer.
Some minutes later all was still in the Ship Tavern. Hal Grame alone stood before the fast-graying embers in the kitchen, thinking miserably. For the first time since he could remember, his childhood’s sweetheart had forgotten to kiss him as she bade him good-night.
“AN EXCELLENT repast, fair mistress, and one I warrant you well appreciated.”
Black’erchief Dick pushed the empty platter from before him, leaned back in his seat, and looked round the room with approval.
It was six o’clock in the morning; and although only a faint grayish light was beginning to steal in the windows and the air was cool and slightly rum-tainted, the kitchen in the old Ship Inn presented a cheerful and lively scene of domestic bustle. The fire, though newly lighted, blazed brightly and the logs, some with the hoar-frost still glittering on them, crackled and spat merrily.
Hal, his boyish face glowing after a hasty splash at the well-nigh frozen pump, hastened to and fro from the scullery to the kitchen, bearing great trays of newly washed tankards, while Sue, a little paler than on the preceding night, but all the same retaining most of her usual good humour, her sleeves rolled high above her elbows and a sail-cloth apron tied about her waist, appeared from time to time in the open doorway between the kitchen and the back scullery, whence the pleasant smell of cooking emerged.
Gilbot was yet abed but his seat with its old hay-stuffed cushions was put in readiness for his coming, in his favourite corner by the fireplace.
One of the long tressle-tables had been pulled out into the wider part of the room clear of the high-backed seats and it was here, one at either end of the table, that Black’erchief Dick and Big French sat in tall, wooden, box-like chairs, finishing the first meal of the day.
Anny waited on them.
This morning she was more beautiful than on the evening before. At least so thought the Spaniard as he watched her trip to and fro with a wooden platter or an earthen pitcher of home-brewed ale in her hands. Her cheeks seemed to him to have more colour in them, her little bare feet, as they pattered over the stones, more elasticity and lightness of touch, and her wonderful, shadowed green eyes, more mirth and gaiety than he had noticed before. As she moved about she sang little snatches of old songs in a lulling, childish voice, tuneful and sweet.
“My father’s gone a-roving—a-roving—a-roving,My father’s gone a-roving across the raging sea,With a feather in his stocking cap,A new son on his rocking lap,My father’s gone a-roving and never thinks o’ me.”
“My father’s gone a-roving—a-roving—a-roving,My father’s gone a-roving across the raging sea,With a feather in his stocking cap,A new son on his rocking lap,My father’s gone a-roving and never thinks o’ me.”
“My father’s gone a-roving—a-roving—a-roving,My father’s gone a-roving across the raging sea,With a feather in his stocking cap,A new son on his rocking lap,My father’s gone a-roving and never thinks o’ me.”
The Spaniard’s white fingers kept time to the simple refrain almost without his knowing it; he caught himself silently repeating the words after her, and he laughed abruptly and then looked round him so fiercely that none dared ask the jest.
It was absurd, he told himself, he, Black’erchief Dick, smuggler, chief of all the Eastern coast, Captain of theColdlight, and owner of six other good sailing-vessels in the trade, to waste his time humming tunes after a serving-wench, a pretty lass of some seventeen years, who served rum to a pack of greasy fishermen in a wayside tavern on the almost uninhabited end of a mud island, when there were women in France, in Spain—he shrugged his shoulders, and to take his thoughts off the girl he ran his mind over the events of the preceding night.
“Friend,” he said suddenly, wiping his lips with a dainty handkerchief, “that same woman who so vilely returned my alms yesternight, what say’st thou is her name?”
Big French sat up and yawned.
“Oh!” he said, “that was Nan Swayle.”
At the sound of his voice Anny, who had been attending to the fire on the other side of the room, came forward and stood at the end of the table, looking at the pair with wide-open, serious eyes.
“Nan Swayle,” the Spaniard rolled the name round his tongue thoughtfully. “Ah, didst say she had been ducked as a witch?”
Big French laughed.
“Ay,” he said, “at the Restoration of the King, and a mirthful figure she made, Captain, her thumbs and great toes tied crossways—so,” and he chuckled at the thought of it.
Anny leant forward, her face flushed and her eyes bright. “A cruel jest, Master French, to so ill-treat a poor woman as far from being a witch as you an angel.”
Black’erchief Dick regarded her excited little form and earnest eyes with open admiration.
“Marry, Mistress,” he said, “what a friend thou art to Mother Swayle! May I ask what she has done for thee?”
Anny dropped her eyes before the Spaniard’s smile.
“She was ever good to me, sir,” she said.
Big French grinned.
“Ay, Anny,” he said, “Nan Swayle’s good will is about all which thy grandsire has ever given you, isn’t it?”
The girl flushed and Sue and Hal stepped forward to listen.
Dick looked puzzled.
“Thy grandsire, Mistress?” he enquired.
Anny reddened again.
“’Tis an old story, sir,” she murmured.
“Prithee, Master French,” the Spaniard turned lazily and looked at the young man. “Prithee tell it.”
French shrugged his shoulders.
“’Tis naught,” he said carelessly, “save that in their youth old Ben Farran—the lass’s grandsire—and Nan Swayle, a sweet wench they say she was then—’tis strange what the rum will do to a woman’s face—well, Captain, they were—as you might say, sweethearts.”
He raised his eyes to Sue at the last word, but she was engrossed in the Spaniard, and looking away again he went on: “Well, Captain—Ben was a sailor—on theElizahe was—and there he got the taste for rum pretty bad, and Nan, she couldn’t get the stuff for him so when Pet Salt came along—Pet o’ the Saltings she was then—with her begging tricks, the old devil left the one for the other. That’s all,” he concluded.
“Ah!” the Spaniard smiled, “a pretty story,” and then turning to Anny, “And so, Mistress, Nan Swayle hath a soft heart for thee, eh?”
“Ay, sir, she is very good to Red and me,” Anny said demurely.
“Red? And who might Red be?” The Spaniard looked up quickly. “A lover?”
Anny blushed again.
“Nay, sir, my little brother,” she said softly. “He lives with Mother Swayle.”
“So!” The thin, straight eyebrows on the olive brow rose in two arches. “I thought thy mother died when thou wast born?”
Big French broke in quickly.
“Ay,” he said, “she did. The lad, Red, a finechild and one I love, was brought home from the South by young Ruddy, the wench’s father, the trip before his last—drowned he was, peace to him.”
“Oh!” the eyebrows straightened themselves. Black’erchief Dick turned once more to Anny. “And so my little beauty hath only Nan Swayle to take care of her,” he said, smiling at her kindly as though she had been a child.
“Nay!” The word escaped from Hal Grame’s lips before he had time to stop it. Immediately the Spaniard’s glittering black eyes were turned on the young Norseman. They took in every detail of his appearance, the coarse scarlet homespun shirt, the white throat, and girlish pink and white face crowned with golden-yellow elf locks, and the deep blue eyes which faltered and fell before the Spaniard’s as they bent on the boy in an amused stare.
“Indeed, sir, and who else?” Black’erchief Dick spoke negligently, the smile still on his lips.
The boy blushed and would not meet the other’s eyes.
“We look after our wenches at the Ship,” he said gruffly.
Dick laughed.
“Of course you do, O knight of the Spigot,” he said genially. “Believe me, sir, I had no meaning to cast a slur upon the fame of your house.”
“Ah, ’tis well, then,” and without looking up Halbegan to clear away the delf from the now dismantled table.
Dick watched him march off with a tray of dirty crockery in his hands, then he shrugged his shoulders.
“Marry, what a joskin!” he said at last.
Anny opened her mouth to speak but checked herself and laughed instead.
Dick looked up at her.
“Mistress,” he said, “might I beg thee to hie to the gate and tell me if thou see’st aught of my rapscallion mate, Master Blueneck?”
“Ay, sir.”
Anny was halfway to the door when Sue ran after her.
“I’ll with thee,” she said.
Dick looked after them.
“A marvellous pretty wench but wondrous evilly clothed,” he said.
“What, Sue?” Big French spoke in great surprise. The Spaniard smiled.
“Cunning dog!” he said under his breath. “Nay, ’twas the other I meant,” he said quietly.
“Oh!” Big French laughed. “The lass has to wear her mistress’s cast-off,” he said.
“Indeed. Her mistress? Is Sue then mistress of the Ship?”
“Mistress Sue,” said French, laying stress on the first word, “is niece to Master Gilbot.”
“Eh? eh? What’s that?” said Gilbot, who hadjust come in, looking up at the sound of his name. “Plague on you all disturbing me,” And then looking round, “Where’s Hal?”
“You are out of humour this morning, host,” observed the Spaniard good-humouredly.
“No,” Gilbot’s voice quavered more than ever. “Ain’t had time to get happy yet, that’s all.”
“Oh!” Dick looked up, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Will you drink a stoup of sack with me, mine host?”
Gilbot brightened visibly.
“Be happy to,” he said quickly and then called loudly for Hal, who presently came in flushed and still a little sulky.
Dick gave the order, and the boy obeyed sullenly, slopping a good gill of the wine over the side of the tankard as he handed it to the Spaniard. Then suddenly, as though realizing the absurdity of his childishness, he drew it back, and, mumbling something about not quite the full measure, filled it up again, wiped the pewter with the skirt of his sacking apron before he once more offered it to the Spaniard, who stood looking through the open door without apparently having noticed the boy at all. Now, however, he took the tankard, drained it at a draught and threw down a silver coin by way of payment.
“Marry, master tapster,” he said approvingly, “I do not look to find a sweeter cup of sack any place from here to the New World—another, I prithee,” and added, as Hal set it before him, “An I grow this partiality for sweet sack, Hal, methinks I shall needs have to borrow the belt of that merry knight, John Falstaff, whom I saw in a foolish piece at the playhouse when last I visited London, that city of evil stenches.”
Hal did not follow the jest, but in spite of this and his present ill-humour, he was forced to laugh with the spry little Spaniard who chuckled so mirthfully, and whose bright sparkling eyes were dancing as they glanced at him over the tankard’s rim.
At this moment Anny entered the kitchen and Dick, seeing her, raised his rumkin.
“To the health of Mother Swayle’s charge,” he said, smiling.
Gilbot looked up suddenly.
“Mother Swayle?” he said in surprise, and then added confidentially to Dick, “Terrible old woman—in liquor nearly all the day—oh, disgusting.” He finished his draught, smacked his lips, and wiped them with the back of his hand. “Ah, you’re right, sir, wonderful sack we sells,” he remarked.
The Spaniard suggested that he should take another and Gilbot cheerfully accepted.
“Master Blueneck is coming up the road, an it please you, sir,” said Sue, coming in from the courtyard.
“Ah, I thank thee, Mistress,” said the Spaniard courteously as he turned to help Anny lift an unusually heavy log on to the cracking fire, but Suecurtseyed and blushed as though he had looked at her with the same fire in his glance as lurked in the one which he bestowed on the younger girl, and her lip trembled as he turned away. All this which he saw and a great deal more which he thought he saw made Master Ezekiel French bite his honey-coloured beard and swear many oaths and curses against the slim white-handed little foreigner who chatted so gallantly with the wenches of the Ship.
Blueneck, entering at this moment, was surprised to see his master talking so earnestly with a chit of a child who as he rightly guessed had not more than seventeen years to her credit.
“The brig is due to start in five minutes if we mean to catch the tide, Captain,” he said.
“Ah, Master Blueneck,” the Spaniard turned affably, “and if we missed the tide what terrible mishap would that be?”
The sailor shuffled uneasily.
“You’re merry, Captain,” he said.
“Ay, Blueneck, I am, indeed, so merry that I cannot abear to have a man with a face as long as the yard-arm about me. Here, my young host,” he hailed Hal from the fireplace. “Give this dog some of thy famous sack, make him light-hearted as I,” and he turned once more to the two girls and Big French.
“Master French,” he said, “I trust to meet thee at the Victory this even, with thy three horses in the courtyard, and a trip to Tiptree in thy mind.”
French looked pleased and would have entered into business details with the Captain, but the other cut him short.
“Marry, Master French,” the Spaniard’s tone was reproachful, “you would not pester me with tales of rum kegs and silk bales when I have but three minutes to bid farewell to two fair beauties even though it be but for three days?”
“Three days?” Sue spoke in pleasure, French in surprise, and Blueneck in genuine alarm.
The Spaniard looked up.
“Yes,” he said carelessly, “methinks this eastern end of the Island more suited to my needs than the west. In three days’ time I shall return, and rest me at the sign of the Ship for a while.”
Big French looked at him in amazement and Blueneck swore under his breath at his master’s eccentricities.
Sue smiled.
“All will be ready for you, sir,” she said. “I thank you.”
The Spaniard bowed, sweeping the floor with his big hat. “Farewell, Mistresses,” he said gallantly as they curtseyed, rather abashed at his Spanish courtesy.
“And now Master French,” he continued, “if thou wilt accompany me to the wall we will discuss that little matter of a trip to Tiptree.”
French looked at the debonair little figure half-irritated by the underlying note of command in hisvoice, but on the other hand half charmed by an indescribable air of perfect freedom which seemed to be exhaled from him.
“I’m coming, Captain,” he said, and nodded to the girls before he turned to follow Black’erchief Dick, who with another bow marched out of the open door, Blueneck after him.
Sue went to the door and watched them going down the road; Big French, a handsome figure in his blue coat, strode beside the slight, gaudily clad little Spaniard whose head hardly reached a foot above the carter’s belt, while Blueneck trudged alone behind. “Ah,” said she, her eyes fixed on the small, almost insignificant figure in the distance, “what a gallant gentleman!”
Anny laughed.
“Maybe,” she said, “but I don’t hold with gentlefolk,” and she walked across the room to where Hal was adding up the yesterday’s reckonings.
“Hal,” she said as she sat down beside him, “I did not kiss thee last night when you bade me good-night.”
Hal kept his eyes fixed on the slate in front of him, but he ceased to take any account of the figures thereon.
“Hal,” said Anny again coaxingly. “Thou didst not kiss me when I said good-night to thee.”
The boy did not raise his eyes and the girl moved a little closer to him.
“Hal,” she said plaintively. Still he did not move.“Hal,” said Anny again. “O, very well,” she added, a catch in her voice, “if thou wilt not——” And she rose to her feet.
“What do you want, maid?” said Hal gruffly, albeit somewhat hastily.
Anny sat down again.
“I owe you a kiss, Hal,” she said softly, twisting her fingers together as they lay on her lap.
“Well?” Hal’s tone was still gruff.
“You owe me a kiss, Hal,” she said without looking at him.
“Well?” the boy drew crosses and rings round the side of the slate.
Anny sighed.
“You were adding the reckonings, Hal, and I want to pay mine,” she said.
“I’m sorry I doubted thee, Anny, but the Spaniard is so fine,” said Hal, a moment or two later, all debts having been squared.
Anny laughed happily.
“’Tis not you but Big French who should be afeared of the Spaniard,” she said, looking over toward Sue, who was still staring through the open door. As though aware that she was being spoken of the girl turned round.
“Anny, lass,” she called. “Come, I would talk to thee.”
Anny rose.
“Foolish one,” she whispered to Hal as her lips brushed his ear.
Hal watched her go lightly across the room and then returned to his reckoning much comforted, but he reflected as he worked that whether she had paid him back or not Anny Farren had certainly forgotten to kiss him on the night that Dick Delfazio, the Spaniard, first came to the Ship Inn.
Meanwhile, Sue and Anny stood together in the doorway deep in talk.
“But, Anny,” Sue was saying, as she held out the skirt of her gown for the other’s inspection, “think you ’twill serve another winter?”
Anny looked at it for a moment; then she displayed her own. “’Tis much better than mine, Mistress Sue,” she said.
“Oh! but you need not look so neat as I,” Sue spoke quickly and without thinking. But, seeing the other girl’s lip tremble, she put an arm round her slim shoulders.
“Nay, I did not mean to speak so,” she said kindly. “I was thinking but of myself; see, lass, when Master French next goes to Tiptree he shall bring me a new length of flannel from the market, and I will give thee this gown, for, truly, thine is very old.”
Anny looked up and smiled; the gift of one of Sue’s old gowns was an event for her.
“Thank thee kindly, mistress,” she said, as Sue shook out the folds of the faded purple homespun frock and tightened the lacing of the corsage. “’Tis not so bad,” she said.
Anny looked at it with pleasure and she laughedhappily. “Nay,” she said, “it will suit me well, I thank you, mistress.”
Sue bent and kissed her.
“You’re a good wench, Anny,” she said, “in spite of yourself.”
“SIT where you are, Joseph Pullen, and hold your peace, and be thankful you have a wife who knows your mind without you for ever speaking of it.”
Mistress Amy Pullen, her kirtle hitched up at one side to give her greater freedom in the discharge of her household duties, strode across her small kitchen, an earthenware bowl of cold fatty broth in her hands and two small children hanging at her petticoats.
The kitchen, which was very small, served also as a general living room for the Pullen family, and this evening, four or five days after Captain Dick had first left the Ship Inn, it was crowded. Joe, debarred from his favourite seat by his wife, who liked the whole of the fire to cook at, sat in a corner on a heap of miscellaneous lumber, a net which he was mending spread around him. In addition to the two little mites who hung on to their mother as though life itself depended on it, three other children were in the room, one baby of a year or so was nursed by another, a pretty fair-haired little girl of eight or nine, who sat on a roughly made-up bed built into the wall opposite the fireplace. She amused the child by making quaint shadows on the wall with herhand in the flickering firelight, and save for the clatter of the cooking, the baby’s happy gurgles and half-spoken words of delight were the only sounds in the warm little room. The third child, a boy of ten, even now remarkably like his father, sat on the lowest rung of a wide wooden ladder which led to two little rooms above the kitchen, with a skep of small onions at his side and a knife in his hand. As he peeled the onions the tears ran down his cheeks and he sniffed at intervals.
Joe looked up over his net at the boy.
“Tant, hold thy peace,” he said.
The child sniffed again.
“I can’t hold it, ’tis these,” he said, wiping his eyes on his jersey sleeve, and indicating the skep with one dirty little foot. Joe grunted, and the child went on peeling, his tears falling faster and his sniffs becoming more and more frequent. At last Joe looked up again.
“Put down the knife, lad, and leave the onions if you can’t peel them without setting up a snort like a hog every other second.”
The boy, only too glad to be relieved of his task, obeyed with alacrity, and got up looking lovingly at the unlatched door that led out on to the road. He had not made a step in that direction, however, before his mother, who had been listening, turned from the fire. “Tant, sit down and finish them onions,” she said sharply, and then turning to her husband who was assiduously attending to his net, she said,“Isn’t it enough, Joe Pullen, for me to wear myself to skin and bone feeding you, looking after your children, cleaning your home? Isn’t it enough, I say, for me to do everything for you, to work like a common drudge, to keep you idle, without you forbidding my son to help me?”
Her voice grew more and more shrill and her words came faster and faster until her speech became almost unintelligible.
Joe looked up cautiously from his work.
“O peace with ye, Amy,” he said impatiently, the easily called colour mounting up to his fair hair and his blue eyes growing darker.
“Ay, that’s it.”
Mistress Pullen was a tall, well-made woman, and her eyes screwed themselves into slits of fury as she swung round, platter in hand, upsetting both children at her skirts, who began at once to whimper with fear.
“Ay, that’s it, I must hold my peace! I, who slave day and night to make you happy, must hold my peace! Hold my peace forsooth!” she continued, breaking into a sharp laugh. “Look you, Joe Pullen, where would you and your children be without me? Tell me that. Oh! you sithering rat, you ungrateful mass of rum-sodden food, where would you be without me?”
Joe vouchsafed no answer and the good lady, her wrath abating as suddenly as it had arisen, contented herself with a few muttered questions as to the possibility of Joe and his family remaining for an instant on the earth without her, turned again to the fire, shaking off the yelping little ones who tried to clasp her knees.
Tant continued to sniff over his onion peeling unmolested.
Called by her mother, the little fair-haired girl, who played so happily with the baby, left her game and, placing her charge carefully on the bed, set out six earthen bowls on the plain boarded table, which took up most of the space in the middle of the little room, and summoned the family to supper. Not until everyone was seated did Mistress Pullen lift the great iron pot off the hook on the chimney beam and, resting it on the edge of the table, dole out to each person an allowance, which varied in quantity according to age. In the same way she distributed chunks of coarse home-made bread, and then seeing everyone served, finally she sat down to her own meal.
The Pullens ate without speaking, quickly, noisily, and with evident relish, dipping the bread in the broth and eating the sodden lumps with their fingers. Mistress Amy held the baby on her lap, feeding the little creature with sops from her own bowl.
When all the broth had been disposed of, more bread and an earthen jar of honey were brought out and the meal continued.
Inside the little kitchen all was warm, one might almost say stuffy, for, in spite of the big fire and thenumber of people inside, the door was shut fast and the one little window which the room possessed was not made to open. However, the noise that the rain, swiftly driven over the marshlands by a fierce wind, made on the glass, and the hissing drops that descended the wide chimney, all helped to make the kitchen as desirable as it could be.
“Joan Bellamie was a-saying that the Captain of theColdlighthath come back to the Ship, Joseph. Have ye heard aught of it?” Mistress Pullen looked across the table at her husband as she spoke.
Joe dropped his eyes before her gaze.
“Oh, yes,” he said casually.
“Oh, yes, indeed!” Amy’s voice rose again, “and ye did not think to tell me, did ye? Here I work the live-long day, and you so surly that you will not tell me the common gossip of the Island! I’d like to meet another woman who’d rest with ye.” Then she added more quietly. “Did any of his crew return with him, perchance?”
Joe shifted uneasily in his chair, and reached out for another piece of bread before he spoke.
“They did not,” he said shortly.
Mistress Pullen took a deep breath.
“And to think I have lived with a liar fit for the burning all these years!” she exclaimed. “For it was only this very day that I saw Master Coot (and if ever there was a snivelling sucking-pig ’tis he)—with my very own eyes and he told me that the brig was that minute moored in the Pyfleet, and everyman of her crew aboard. A’m ashamed of ye, Joseph, to lie before the children the way you do.”
Joe shrugged his shoulders.
“Ah, well, my girl,” he said significantly, “as far as we’re concerned they ain’t on the Island, see?” And he rose to his feet and stepped across to the fireplace.
Mistress Pullen opened her mouth to reply, but at this moment a violent knocking at the door interrupted her.
Joe looked across at his wife.
“Whoever will it be?” he said.
“If you had any sense at all you’d go and see instead of standing like a sheep thunderstruck,” said the lady, getting up from her seat, her baby on her arm. Striding over to the door, she opened it wide and then stepped back in astonishment, letting a blast of cold wind and rain into the over-heated room.
“Well, come in, whatever you are,” she said at last to someone outside as she held the door wide open to let them pass. “If you’re not welcome ye can always go again.”
A strange bedraggled little figure stepped into the candle-lit room. He was about nine years old, scantily clothed in a pair of sail-cloth breeches so large for him that the waist was fastened about his neck with a coarse string, and the knee-latchets flapped loosely over his little bare muddy feet, which were torn and scratched with thorns, and blue with cold. Round his shoulders he hugged what appeared to bethe remains of a woman’s kirtle, the ragged hem hanging down to his knees and little rivulets of water dripping off the frayed ends on to the bricks. His face was like his feet, blue and muddy, but two sparkling blue eyes and a shock of red hair gave a certain charm to an otherwise insignificant countenance.
Mistress Pullen shut the door behind him before she turned to look at her visitor. As soon as she had done so, however, she whisked her baby over to the other side of the room, exclaiming as she did so: “Mother of Heaven! ’Tis Red Farren, the Witch’s brat. Out of the house with him. He can’t stay here bewitching the whole of us.”
The little creature looked up at her, his face puckering. “Not a witch’s brat,” he said, and then putting his grimy little fists to his eyes began to cry bitterly.
Joe Pullen’s fair-haired daughter made a step toward the pitiful little figure, but her father’s hand on her arm restrained her.
“You stay still, Alice, unless you want to wake up one day and find yourself a gray girl or a coney,” he said.
Alice, rather frightened, obeyed, and Tant stood by her, his arm round her, while the two smaller children hung as usual to their mother’s skirts. The whole Pullen family entrenched behind the table stood looking at the weeping little stranger for some seconds before any one spoke again. At last Joe, his natural kindliness overcoming his superstitious fears,stepped round the table and took the child by the hand.
“Why did ye leave Nan’s cabin this time o’ night, lad?” he asked him.
The boy looked fearfully behind him, and Joe, noting the movement, himself turned round in some apprehension. However, nothing untoward being there, Red began to speak through his sobs.
“Pet Salt and Nan is fightin’ horrid,” he said.
Mistress Pullen, her curiosity getting the better of her discretion, came a little nearer.
“Pet Salt?” she said. “How did Pet Salt come to be up there?”
“She comed to beg some meal cake,” the child began. “She said she wanted it for Ben.”
“Oh!” Mistress Pullen sniffed and looked at her husband significantly. “And wasn’t it for Ben, manikin?” she said.
The child looked up.
“No,” he said eagerly. “No, that’s why they is fighting, mistress, because ’twas not for my grandsire. No, Nan saw the old ronyon eating it herself.”
Joe threw back his head and began to laugh.
“Oh! ho! and did you run away because the two crones were fighting, lad?” he said.
The child nodded, and his tears began to flow again. “And they’s hurt Win!” he blurted out.
“Win? Who’s Win?” said Joe curiously.
“Oh, peace with you worrying the brat,” saidAmy. “Prithee, child, did Nan Swayle lay hands on Pet Salt because she had eaten the meal-cake Nan had made for thy grandsire?” she questioned eagerly.
The child shook his head.
“No mistress, ’twas was not made for Grandsire, ’twas all we had left, but Nan said that if Ben wanted it he must have it and we go hungry. So she was vexed at the ronyon’s eating of it herself.”
“Oh! art hungry now?” The question escaped Joe’s lips before he had time to stop it.
The child looked up eagerly.
“Ay,” he said, his eyes straying to the remains of the food on the table. “Ay, will ye give me some?”
Joe immediately stretched his hand for the remnant of the loaf of bread and the child’s face brightened with expectation, but Mistress Pullen stepped forward.
“Mother of Saints! have I wedded a loon? Would ye have the household entirely bewitched, Joseph Pullen, that you’d feed a witch-child under our very roof?” she said, as she snatched the bread from his hand and replaced it on the table.
Joe looked sheepish and little Red began to cry again. Mistress Pullen reddened and sniffed fiercely.
“If he hungers he better go to his sister at the Ship,” she said tartly. “Heaven knows what with her Captain and her other men she ought to glean enough to look after her brother.”
Joe turned on his wife in honest indignation.
“Amy! how dare ye speak so of Hal Grame’s lass?” he said. “I’m not going to have my mate’s sweetheart spoke of so.”
Mistress Pullen shrugged her shoulders.
“Maybe you like the lass yourself,” she sneered, and then added fiercely, “anyway, you ought to be ashamed of yourself letting a witch’s brat stay in the room with your own children. Out of the house with him, you loony.”
Joe looked at the forlorn little boy and then at his wife.
“Maybe I better go with the child,” he suggested casually.
Mistress Pullen turned on him, withering contempt in her glance.
“Ay,” she said, “maybe you had. Lord, what an unnatural beast you are, preferring to go to a rum-shop in the company of a bastard brat than to rest in peace at your own fireside. Oh, go by all means, and the devil with you. You fool, do you think Nan Swayle has forgiven the ducking you gave her at the Restoring of the King?”
And with this parting shaft, Mistress Pullen, baby on arm, strode across the kitchen and climbed up the wide ladder to the rooms above.
Joe looked about him undecidedly. Then his glance fell on the boy.
“Who’s Win?” he asked, suddenly remembering his question of a minute or two before.
The little boy began to cry again and opening hiskirtle-cloak disclosed to the fisherman’s astounded eyes a little black kitten nearly dead with fright and drenched with rain.
“This is Win,” said Red. “Him’s hurt!”
Joe stepped back in horror.
“The witch’s cat,” he ejaculated.
Red looked up.
“No!” he said, “only a little one, look, only a very little one.” He held it up for Joe’s inspection. It certainly looked a very small, and young, harmless animal. It was much too frightened to move, and the wet fur clung closely to its emaciated body.
Joe came a little nearer and then reached for his coat and cap which hung behind the door.
“Come, lad,” he said gruffly, “we must get on to the Ship.”
The child looked round the warm, bright room longingly, but he followed Joe out into the rain without a word.
The man carefully latched the door behind him, and they walked on in silence for a minute or so, fighting their way against the storm.
It was bitterly cold and Joe looked down at his little companion anxiously; the child was stumbling along, the kitten tightly clasped in his arms; once or twice he nearly fell.
Joe looked round him cautiously, although had there been any one by they could not have been seen, then he bent down.
“You’ll not tell Nan if I carry ye a bit, lad?” heasked. The child promised eagerly, and Joe swung him up in his arms.
“Here,” he said, pressing a soft lump into the child’s hands. “Even if you’re a witch’s brat ye mustn’t be hungered.”
Red bit into the bread that Joe had slipped into his pocket in his wife’s absence, and hugged the well-nigh suffocated kitten a little closer to his breast, while Joe, his head bent before the wind and rain, pushed on to the Ship.
ALITTLE more than an hour after Joe Pullen and little Red Farren left the cottage, Mistress Amy sat by the fireside, sewing. The five children were asleep upstairs and everything was quiet. Opposite her in the chimney corner, his heavy rain-sodden boots smoking in the heat, sat Blueneck, his unshaven chin resting in his hands. On the table lay the woollen cap and heavy coat which he had thrown off on entering. The water which dripped off the skirts of the coat made a little puddle on the clean red and yellow bricks of the floor.
“You’re a kind man, Master Blueneck, to come trudging all this way in the soaking rain to cheer a poor woman whose husband is too surly to tell her of the doings of the Island,” said the lady, looking up from her mending, after a silence of a few minutes.
“Ah, señora.”
Mistress Pullen blushed with pleasure at the sound of the foreign address.
“Where on the Island is better company than yourself?” said the sailor gallantly, leaning a little forward so that the firelight played on the brass earrings that shone amongst the short oily curls hanging down the sides of his face.
Mistress Pullen giggled and applied herself industriously to her needlework.
“I warrant me you’re not so well served at the Ship as you were at the Victory, Master Blueneck?” she said without looking up.
Blueneck laughed bitterly.
“You’re right, mistress,” he said, forgetting the “señora” to Amy’s disappointment. “The Ship is none so bad a tavern, as taverns are nowadays, but ’tis of a truth much inferior to the Victory.”
“I wonder that the Captain rests him there then?” said Mistress Amy, glancing under her lashes at her visitor.
“Marry, so do I.” Blueneck’s tone was almost querulous. “Why look you, mistress,” he added, “is it not bad for our trade for us to tarry so long at one place, ay, more especially when ’tis here in the East where the creeks are as unknown to us as to the excise men themselves?”
“Of a truth ’tis bad indeed,” Mistress Pullen spoke with conviction. “I wonder the Captain has it so,” she remarked again glancing sideways at him.
Blueneck looked into the fire for a moment before he spoke. “Methinks the Captain is bewitched,” he said at last.
“Bewitched!” Mistress Amy, her thoughts flying at once to her other visitor of the evening, spoke in some alarm.
Blueneck shrugged his shoulders.
“Anyway, I never saw him so before,” he said, “and I’ve sailed aboard his ship these ten years.”
“But whoever would bewitch him?” asked Mistress Pullen, looking up innocently, as though no hint of the affairs of the Ship had reached her.
“A marvellous pretty wench,” said Blueneck, and then he added hastily, “but of no comparison with thee, señora.”
Mistress Amy laughed.
“’Tis a flatterer you are,” she said, “but I never heard of a pretty wench of the Ship, Master Blueneck; will she be one of the Island girls?”
Blueneck looked up.
“Ay,” he said, “’tis a lass called Anny Farran.”
“Oh!” Mistress Pullen’s eyebrows rose, and she pursed up her lips. “That child!”
Blueneck looked at her curiously.
“Hast heard aught against the lass?” he asked.
Amy looked about her carefully, then leaning a little forward opened her mouth as though to speak, but as though another thought had crossed her mind she drew back and, shaking her head, said piously, “But who am I to take away a poor slut’s character? ’Tis not my nature, and I pray you, Master Blueneck, that you will not urge me, for my very conscience revolts against it.” She paused. “Though, mind you, I could an I would,” she went on, “but then, as I said, the story will do the lass no good.”
“You make me curious, señora,” said the sailor in his best manner.
But Mistress Pullen for a very good reason, namely, that she could not think of a convincing story on the spot, was not to be prevailed on, and the conversation flagged for a time. At last she broke the silence.
“Then the Captain of theColdlightis much attracted by this—this, this wench?” she asked.
“Attracted!” Blueneck looked up excitedly. “I tell you, mistress, I never saw him so before—of course, you will understand, señora, there have been other women—how could there not be? But never has it been so that he has lost his delight in the trade. No,” he added, “it has not been like this these last ten years, and before then he was but a lad. Without doubt the maid has bewitched him.”
Mistress Pullen began to be interested.
“Have there been very many other women who loved the gallant Captain?” she said, her respect for the Spaniard growing at every word.
Blueneck threw up his hands.
“So many, mistress, I could not name them all.”
Mistress Amy thrilled with interest, but her face fell at her next thought.
“And now he is enamoured with an Island wench?” she said, feeling that the Captain had somehow lowered his standard of romance.
“Ay,” said Blueneck, “but ’tis a new affair this time; before, it was the wenches who sighed for the Captain and the Captain who laughed and was merry, but this time it is the wench who is merry andthe Captain”—he laughed—“oh, the Captain is bewitched,” he said.
“Indeed!” Mistress Pullen looked surprised. “I wonder that Mistress Sue would brook the affair in her uncle’s house.”
“Ho! ho! ho!” Blueneck laughed, his earrings glittering in the firelight. “Mistress Sue? Why, Mistress Amy, that lass would give her ears to get a fair look from Black’erchief Dick. I warrant you Master French is well-nigh mad at her neglect.”
Mistress Pullen sighed at the waywardness of youth and went on with her sewing.
“Ah, and that’s another thing,” said Blueneck. “Did you know that Master French was prevented from going to Tiptree last Tuesday?”
“Prevented! Were there excise men on the Stroud?” Mistress Amy spoke quickly, voicing the fear of all the Island smugglers.
The Stroud, a narrow, bridge-like road across the mud, was the one connection the Island had with the mainland, and once the officers of the law held it, there was no telling what dangers would be involved.
Blueneck smiled.
“Nay,” he said, “they will be as foolish as ever they were. Nay, there was some talk about the goods, and the Captain swore that he would not rest another night at the Victory, and that if Master French wanted aught from him he must come to the Ship and fetch it. So he had to return.”
“Indeed, and when will he be going again, MasterBlueneck, for I was wishing to get me a piece of ribbon for my new kirtle-top?” said Mistress Pullen, her interest reviving.
The Spaniard looked at her, smiling. “Would you allow me to get it for you, señora?” he said in as exact imitation as he could manage of the Captain’s manner.
Mistress Amy looked at him in surprise.
“Why, surely you’re not going to Tiptree, Master Blueneck, are you?” she said.
“I would go to London, if you wished aught from thence, mistress,” said the sailor loftily.
Amy looked at him in admiration. “If only Joe would speak so,” she reflected.
The sailor, seeing the impression he had made, rose to his feet, narrowly escaping the chimney beam.
“To-morrow,” he said, “I shall ride to Tiptree and bring the fairest dame in the Island a ribbon.” He reached for his cap and coat, and buttoning them on, made for the door.
Amy followed him, thanking him. They exchanged farewells, Mistress Pullen blushingly consenting to a kiss, and parted.
As soon as his footsteps had died away, Mistress Pullen slipped a cloak over her head and moved to the window, through which she could see a faint patch of light about two hundred yards away.
“Ah!” she said to herself, “Joan Bellamie will be yet awake, what a deal I have to tell the ronyon.” And she slipped out, shutting the door behind her.
“ANNY, lass, I would speak with thee; wilt harken?”
Hal put the question timidly as he looked across at his sweetheart.
They were alone in the Ship’s kitchen; Hal re-sanded the floor while Anny sat on the window-ledge cleaning a pair of old brass candlesticks. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and the cold, watery sun shot a few last rays of yellow light over the Island before it sank down behind the mainland. Inside the kitchen it was warm and beginning to get dark, for the fire had been allowed to die down to a few smouldering red and white embers, and it was yet too early to light the dips. Outside in the yard Anny could see her little brother talking to old Gilbot, who had wrapped himself up in a seaman’s jacket, and had stepped out to taste the air.
The old man was fond of children, and Anny sighed with relief as she saw the strange pair—Red still wore his costume of the night before—take hands and after some animated talk walk off together down the road in the direction of the sea, laughing as they went.
Hal made up the fire with logs which he had beendrying on the hearth, and crossed the room and stood beside the window-ledge just in front of the girl, before he spoke again.
“Will you harken to me?” he repeated.
Anny looked up, smiling. “Harken to thee, Hal?” she said. “Why, certes, thou needst not look so solemnly; why should I not harken to thee?”
The boy did not speak for a moment but stood fidgeting before her.
Anny put down the candlestick which she was cleaning, and slipping off the window-ledge led him over to the fireplace, where she sat down on one of the long, high-backed seats and pulled him down beside her.
“Do you want to tell me you don’t want to marry me?” she asked half jestingly, half anxiously, as she leaned her little round head with its long black plaits on his shoulder.
Hal turned to her in great astonishment.
“Marry, lass! How can ye be so cruel as to judge me so?” he said. “Of course not!”
“Oh, the saints be praised for that,” said the girl quaintly. “Lord, how you fear’d me, Hal,” she added, kneeling up on the seat to kiss him.
The boy put his arm round her.
“Anny,” he said quietly, his face grave and old for one of his years, “you’re terrible young yet, seventeen ain’t you?” The girl nodded, uncertain as to what was coming yet. “Ah, well, you ain’t had time to grow wise, have you?” he continued, still holding her on the seat beside him.
“I reckon you ain’t had much more, Hal,” she said, laughing. “You’re but eighteen, ain’t you?”
Hal blushed.
“Ay, maybe,” he said. “But I know what I’m telling you.”
Anny kissed him lightly on the forehead.
“I’m harkening,” she said.
Hal opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again; then he withdrew his arm from about her waist and stood up.
Anny looked at him in astonishment not unmixed with fear.
“Why, what in the world is the matter with ye, lad?” she said. “You don’t want to go for a sailor, do you?”
The boy shook his head violently, and Anny began to feel alarmed.
“Whatever will you be worrying about next?” she said.
Hal stepped toward her, and putting a hand on her forehead pushed her head back until she looked into his eyes.
“You—you—you’re not loving the Spaniard, lass?” he blurted out, ashamed of the words as soon as he had spoken them.
Anny looked at him for a moment, uncertain whether to be offended or to laugh.
“Hal, I’m ashamed that you should be such a child,” she said, a little smile hovering round her mouth. “Why should I love any one but you?”
The boy appeared to be satisfied, for he laughed and kissed her, but then he added, “I don’t like the Spaniard, lass. I wish you wouldn’t hark to his swaggerings.”
Anny turned round.
“Hal, you wouldn’t have me ill-tempered to the customers?” she said as she picked up the half-cleaned candlestick and set to work on it again.
Hal thrust his hands into his pockets and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Nay, lass, of course not. I would not bid you be uncivil, but, truth, I thought you liked the foreigner’s big talk and notice of you. I——”
“He is a pleasant gentleman,” said the girl, “but, Lord! I mark not half he says.”
“You’d not let him kiss you, Anny?”
Hal spoke sharply and Anny looked up in amazement.
“Mother of Grace,” she ejaculated, “for what do you take me?”
The boy was beside her in a moment.
“Forgive me, lass,” he said, “I did but want ye to promise to have no dealings with the foreigner—I—love you so, see?”
“Oh!” said Anny, laughing as she straightened her hair after his embrace. “No one would suspect you of kissing a lass before, Hal. You can’t be knowing how strong you are.”
“That’s as may be, but will you promise to have no truck with the Spaniard?” the boy persisted.
“Ay, of course I promise,” Anny sighed at his distrust as she spoke. Hal kissed her again, then walked over to the fireplace and stood for some moments, resting his head on the wooden ledge below the chimney-piece and staring down into the smoky crackling fire.
He felt that he had appeared ridiculous in Anny’s eyes, and his young blood revolted at the thought. In vain he tried to comfort himself with the thought that it was only his love for her which made him so anxious, but the idea that she must think him merely jealous would force itself on his mind, making him uncomfortable. However, he knew that the Captain might be a formidable rival so he said nothing else at the time.
Anny sat on the window-ledge, rubbing the candlestick with more energy than was necessary.
She was hurt that Hal should think her such a light-o’-love, but all the same she thrilled with pleasure to think that he was jealous of anybody because of her. It gave her such a pleasant feeling of ownership and, as she reflected happily, she was very fond of him.
Suddenly she paused to listen. Coming down the road she could hear the scrunching of heavy wagon wheels. She looked up at the old horologe on the chimney-piece.
“That won’t be Master French yet awhile, will it?” she said.
“Eh?” Hal pushed his hand over his forehead andturned to her. “I don’t hear any one,” he said, “and it wouldn’t be him yet; the roads ain’t safe before dark nowadays.”
Anny sat still for a moment.
“There is someone,” she cried, as a tumbril drawn by a piebald gelding turned into the yard.
Hal stepped across to the window and looked out over the girl’s head.
“Oh! ’tis Cip de Musset,” he said, as the man in the tumbril climbed out and pushed back the oiled flaps of his head-covering from his face. “I warrant he brings the rum from the brig.” He opened the door and went out bare-headed into the yard.
Anny watched him through the window, saw him greet the man heartily, and then look into the cart at the other’s invitation.
“Right!” she heard him say, “six of rum and three of Canary. Here, John Pattern.”
A man came out of one of the stables. Hal said something to him which she could not catch. The man nodded and led the horse into a corner of the yard, where he proceeded to unload the cart.
The man of whom Hal had spoken as Cip de Musset was tall, long-legged, and loosely built, with a black beard which curled down onto his chest. He stepped up to the inner door with Hal, and then stopped and went back to the cart as though he had forgotten something. After groping under the sacking coverings for a while he pulled out a fair-sized bundle tied up in a piece of sail-cloth, and with this under hisarm, came back to the door where Hal was waiting for him. As he crossed the yard he caught sight of Anny peering through the window and smiled at her, showing a set of enormous yellow teeth.
Anny tossed her head and turned away from the window, and picking up the two candlesticks carried them off to the first guest-chamber where they belonged.
When she returned, the sail-cloth bundle was lying on the table, and Hal and Cip de Musset were sitting together by the fire, the latter drinking hot rum.
“Good-morrow, fair one,” grinned the visitor as he looked up, “there’s somewhat on the table for thee.”
His clothes proclaimed him a sailor, and his manners were free and easy.
“For me?” Anny looked first at the bundle and then over at Hal who was watching her covertly.
“And—er—and who will it be sent from, Master de Musset?” she said at last.
Cip de Musset laughed.
“Open it, lassie,” he said, “open it and see.”
Anny, nothing loath, pulled at the knots, and pushed back the sail-cloth; underneath was a white linen covering.
Hal rose to his feet and in spite of himself craned his neck to see.
The other man got up and stood beside the girl, looking down at the bundle. The arrival of a parcel was an unusual occurrence at the Ship.
Anny fingered the linen for a moment, and then with a deft movement of her little brown hand switched it off. She gave a gasp of surprise, and putting out her hands held up a piece of Lyons silk. It was of a pale honey colour and of a texture not unlike taffeta. She shook out the glistening sheet and held the piece high up to her chin. The effect made even Hal gasp. Cip de Musset put his tankard down on the table and stepped back a few paces to look at her.
“That’s right, lassie, just a bit nearer the window,” he said.
Anny obeyed, as proud as a snake of its new skin, and stood so that the little remaining light might fall upon her.
Cip rested his huge hairy hands on his hips and leant back a little, his head on one side, and one eye shut.
“By the Lord, but you’re as fair as a new figurehead, lass,” he said approvingly.
Anny looked down and laughed with delight. She had never seen such stuff before, and the blood rushed to her face as she saw Hal’s expression of amazed admiration as he stared at her. With a little sigh she folded up the silk and returned to the bundle. It contained a letter, a piece of green frieze, and a little carved box. Anny laid aside the letter and the box, and looked at the frieze; there seemed to be a great deal of it.
Cip stepped forward to help her, and taking oneend walked over to the door, while she, holding her side, went to the fireplace, yet the strip sagged in the middle to the floor.
“Two new kirtles and a pair of galligaskins for Red,” thought the girl, as she wound up the cloth, and turned her attention to the box.
Cip de Musset nudged Hal, and jerked his thumb in her direction.
“Look how the lassie plays with new toys,” he whispered.
Hal turned away sharply, frowning angrily.
Cip stared at him in amazement and then, shrugging his shoulders, looked across at the girl.
Anny had not noticed Hal’s expression, and Cip’s face broke into smiles again as he watched her. She was trying to open the little wooden box, her face was flushed, and she was breathing quickly with childish excitement. At last she gave it up, and, turning to Cip, offered it for him to open. The sailor wiped his hands carefully on his green-and-yellow neckerchief before he took the box gingerly between his thumb and forefinger. After turning it over once or twice he tried his strength on the tightly fitting lid and jerked it off, and held it out to the girl.