“So much the better; they’ll be able to see the merits of it.”
Ben and Yelf made the same criticism as Uncle Isaac, upon which Charlie amended the fault, till they expressed themselves satisfied.
“That boy,” said Yelf, as they went down stairs, “if he lives, and gives his mind to it, will make a first-rate ship-builder.”
“Ever since he has been with me,” was the reply, “he has been, at leisure moments, making boats. I believe he has a fleet, great and small, as numerous as the whole British navy.”
Not the least industrious personage among this busy crew was Ben Rhines, Jr.
From morning to night, with a devotion worthy of a better cause, he improved every moment, doing mischief, till his mother was, at times, almost beside herself. One moment she would be startled by a terrific outcry from the buttery. Ben had tumbled down the buttery stairs; anon from the front entry he had fallen down the front stairs; then, from the cellar, he was kicking and screaming there.
This enterprising youth, bent upon acquiring knowledge, was determined to explore these new avenues of information. Twice he set the room in a blaze, by poking shavings into the fire, and singed his mischievous head to the scalp, and had a violent attack of vomiting in consequence of licking the oil from Uncle Isaac’s oil-stone. His lips were cut, and he was black and blue with bruises received in his efforts. Despite of all these mishaps, Ben enjoyed himself hugely; he had piles and piles of blocks, great long shavings, both oak and pine, that came from the panels and the banisters; he would bury the cat and Sailor all up in shavings, and then clap his hands, and scream with delight, to see them dig out; he would also hide from his mother in them, and lie as still as though dead; he could pick up plenty of nails on the floor to drive into his blocks, and didn’t scruple in the least to take them from the nail-box if he got a chance. The moment Uncle Isaac’s back was turned, in went his fingers into the putty; he carried off the chalk-line, to fish down the buttery stairs, and, when caught, surrendered it only after a most desperate struggle.
“What a little varmint he is!” said Uncle Isaac. “If he don’t break his neck, he’ll be a smart one.”
“I believe you can’t kill him,” said Sally, “or he would have been dead long ago. He’s been into the water and fire, the oxen have trod on him, and a lobster shut his claws on his foot; why he ain’t dead I don’t see.”