His eyes, humorous as they were, took on a shrewdness under their sandy brows as if judging the character of the boy before him and his ability to keep a secret.
"First and foremost," he said, "You had best know who I am." He leaned back and hooked his thumbs under his armpits in a prideful gesture.
"My lad," said Ned Cilley, thrusting out his chin, "I am a member of the Mirabelle's crew!"
"The Mirabelle!" Chris exclaimed, "Why—that's the ship in the bottle!"
"Aye," agreed Cilley, nodding sagely, "The model of it's in a bottle right enough, since it's meself that made it, the last trip home from the Chiny Seas."
"You made it yourself?" Chris breathed, looking aghast at the gnarled knotted fingers, thick and roughened by work and weather, picturing to himself the delicacy of the miniature ship that lay so snugly in its transparent walls. "How in the world could you get it inside?" he asked.
Ned wagged his head. "Ah, 'tis a trick and a tedious thing, no mistaking, but there's time and to spare for it, coming home from China."
"China? You've been there? What's it like?" Chris wanted to know, his eyes eager.
Cilley smiled at him, a snaggled-toothed friendly grin. "That's a tale for another time, my boy, for there's much telling there. You wanted the story of Becky's fine hat."
"Yes—yes!" Chris urged. "Before she comes back."