“Oh, but I never took any notice. What’s a midshipman’s like?”
“Bloo, my lad, and a bit o’ white on the collar.”
“And a cocked hat?”
“Oh yes, a cocked hat—a small one, you know.”
“And a sword, Barney?”
“Well, as to a sword, lad,” said the old sailor, wiping a brown corner of his mouth; “it arn’t right to call such a tooth-pick of a thing a sword. Sort of a young sword as you may say, on’y it never grows no bigger, and him as wears it does. Dirks, they calls ’em, middies’ dirks.”
“A uniform and a sword,” said Sydney to himself. “A blue uniform with white on the collar, and a cocked hat and a sword!”
It was very tempting, and the boy went on down by the side of the lake, beyond which were the great trees, with the ragged nests of the tall birds which gave the name to the captain’s residence, where he had settled to end his days well in view of the sea.
Here where the water was smooth as glass Sydney stood leaning over, holding on by a bough, and gazing at his foreshortened image, as in imagination he dressed himself in the blue uniform, buckled on his dirk, and put on his cocked hat.
It was very tempting, but disinclination mastered vanity, and he turned away to go back toward the house.