Poor little Dot was not so strong, but still she was brave, for she made no sound, while she hid her face and cried bitterly.
Meanwhile, the big sailor had faced about and was walking back, picking up his feet from the sand as if it were hot and burned him, while the Captain turned his back on his son and began to move off toward the fir-wood.
This gave the Skipper his opportunity too; he swung round to hide the tears that had beaten him, and would come trickling down.
For the boy in his misery and despair felt that he could not—thanks to his training—run to his father and beg for forgiveness, so that he might have the presents the Captain had brought for him. It would be so mean, he thought. But that cannon, and the anchor, and the ship's cable. It seemed more than he could bear.
The sand was very soft, and the Skipper would not have known that his father had come back, if Dot had not uttered a tiny sob, when the boy started round, to face his father's eyes.
"Not sulky, are you, Bob?"
The boy shook his head. He dared not try to speak.
"It was not right of my boy, was it?"
"No, father," whispered the boy.
"Shake hands, then."