“Yes, father.”
“You young goose—I mean gander,” he said laughing. “Pleasure that has not been earned by hard work of some kind is poor tasteless stuff, of which everybody would soon tire; and as to its being always hot and sunshiny, why, my dear boy, I’ve been out in the tropics when the sky has been for weeks without a cloud, the seams oozing pitch, and the rails and bolts and bell all so hot you could not touch them, and we would have given anything for a thick mist or a heavy rain, or a good puff of cool wind. No, no, my dear boy, England and its climate are best as they are. In all my travels I never found a better or more healthy place; and as to the holidays—bah! Life was not made for play. Kittens are the most playful things I know, but they soon give it up, and take to work.”
“Yes, father,” I said with a sigh, “but school exercises are so hard.”
“The better lad you when you’ve mastered them. It’s hard work to learn to be a sailor, but the more credit to the young man who masters navigation, and gets to know how to thoroughly handle a ship; better still how to manage his men, for a crew is a very mixed-up set of fellows, Sep.”
“Yes, father, I suppose so. But I am trying very hard at school.”
“I know you are, Sep. Have another egg—and that bit of brown. You’ve got room, I know. Make muscle.”
He helped me to what I was by no means unwilling to take, and then continued:
“Of course you are trying hard, and I know it. Otherwise I shouldn’t have been so glad to see you home for the holidays you’ve earned, and be ready to say to you, ‘Never mind about holiday lessons, I don’t approve of them, my lad; put them aside and I’ll make excuses for you to the doctor. Work as hard as you can when you are at school, and now you are at home, play as hard as you can.’ We must have a bit of fishing. I’ve got some new lines, and a trammel net to set, and we’ll do a good deal of boating. You sha’n’t stand still for want of something to do. What’s that?”
“Only a stone, father,” I replied, for in pulling out my handkerchief, the piece that I had put in my pocket on the previous day flew out, and fell with a crash in the fireplace.
“What do you want with stones in your pocket?” he said rather crossly, as he rose and picked up the piece to throw it out of the window; but, as soon as he had it in his hand, its appearance took his attention. He turned it over, weighed it in his hand, and then held it more to the light.