A quarter of a minute more and bang would go another gun, and so on for the whole six, every one of them kicking hard and leaping back some distance on to the shingle.
When all were fired, my father used to push them on their little carriages all back into their places; then he used to “bend,” as he called it, the white ensign on to the halyards, and run it up to the head of a rigged mast which stood at the corner, and close to the edge of the cliff, and after this shake hands with himself, left hand with right, and wish himself many happy returns of the day.
It was not his birthday that one on which I ran down the garden to join him; but there he was by his guns, busy with his spy-glass sweeping, as he called it, the Bristol Channel and talking to himself about the different craft.
“Hallo, Sep, my boy!” he said; “here’s a morning for a holiday landsman—or boy. Well, I didn’t see much of you yesterday.”
“No, father,” I said; “I was out all day with Doctor Chowne’s boy and young Uggleston.”
“Rather a queer companion for you, my boy, eh? Uggleston is a sad smuggler, they say; but let’s see, his boy goes to your school?”
“Yes, father, and he’s such a good fellow. We went to his house down in the Gap, and had dinner, and Mr Uggleston was very civil to me, all but—”
“Well, speak out, Sep. All but what?”
“He spoke once, father, as if he did not like your having bought the Gap.”
“Hah! Very likely; but then you see, Sep, I did not consider myself bound to ask everybody’s permission when I was at the sale, much more Mr Jonas Uggleston’s, so there’s an end of that.”