The boy had a good final look at the old man, who wore more the aspect of a rough fisherman than a gardener. In fact he had pursued the former avocation entirely in the past, in company with the speculative growing of fruit and vegetables in his garden patch—not to sell to his neighbours, the fishing folk of the tiny hamlet of Eilygugg, but to “swap” them, as he termed it, for fish. Then the time came when the Den gardener happened to be enjoying himself at Rockabie with a dozen more men, smoking, discussing shoals of fish, the durability of nets, and the like, when they suddenly discovered the fact that a party of men had landed on the shore from His Majesty’s ship Conqueror, stolen up to the town in the darkness, and, after surrounding the little inn with a network of men, drawn the said net closer and closer, and ended by trammelling the whole set of guests and carrying them off as pressed men to the big frigate.
That was during the last war, and not a man came back to take up his regular avocation. Consequently there was a vacancy for a gardener at the Den, and it was afterwards filled up by Fisherman Onesimus Dunning, the wrinkled-faced man handling the spade and dealing so tenderly with his Mother Earth when Aleck looked out of the window.
“I wonder old Jane hasn’t been up to see how I am,” said Aleck, as he handled his comb as gingerly as the gardener did his spade.
“I wonder how Master Aleck is,” said Jane, just about the same time. “But I won’t disturb him. Nothing like a good long sleep for hurts.”
“I know,” said Aleck to himself; “I can’t call down the stairs, because uncle would hear. I daresay he’s asleep. I’ll tell old Ness to go round to the kitchen door and say she is to come up. No, I won’t; he’d come close up and see my face, and it would make her cross now she’s busy frying fish. How good it smells! I am hungry! Wish she’d bring some up at once. How am I to let her know?”
He had hardly thought this before he started, for there was a sharp rap at the door, the handle rattled, and the old captain came in.
“Getting up, Aleck, boy?” he said. “Ah, that’s right—dressed. Come along down. You must be hungry.”
“I am, uncle,” replied the boy, returning his uncle’s warm and impressive grasp; “but I can’t come down like this,” and the boy made a deprecating gesture towards his battered face.
“Well, you don’t look your best, Aleck, lad,” said the old man, smiling; “but you are no invalid. Never mind your looks; you’ll soon come right.”
Nothing loth, the boy followed his uncle downstairs, Jane hurriedly appearing in the little breakfast-room with a hot dish and plates on hearing the steps, and smiling with satisfaction on seeing Aleck.