“Heverythink, Master Syd. That there boy’s gettin’ worse than you.”
“Oh! is he?”
“Growlin’ and grumblin’ at any mortal thing. Won’t do his work, and says he won’t go to sea, just the same as you do; and now he’s been sarcing the cook.”
“For saying the boots and shoes were not clean.”
“How do you know, Master Syd?”
“I saw her throwing them at him. You’d no business to hit him with that rake shaft.”
“What! No business to hit him? Why, he’s my own boy, arn’t he? All right then, Master Syd; there’s an old wagon rope in the shed, I’ll lay up a bit o’ that—hard; and on’y just wait till he comes back, that’s all. Won’t be a sailor, won’t he! I’ll let him see. If he won’t be able to write AB at the end of his name ’fore he’s one-and-twenty my name arn’t Barnaby Strake.”
The old boatswain went off growling; and in the lowest of low spirits, Syd went indoors, to make his way to the library, shut himself in, and begin taking down the books from the dusty shelves, seeking for one which dealt with adventures.
There was no lack of them, but somehow or another all seemed to have the smack of the salt sea. Now and then he came upon some land adventures, but it was always preceded by a voyage to the place; and at last he threw a book down peevishly.
“Any one would think the world was all sea,” he grumbled; “that’s the worst of being born on an island.”