“I see, sir, but it wasn’t all that. You see, our Sally’s been tied up by the nose for so many months in harbour yonder, that now she’s running free she can’t hold herself in. Ketch hold of the rail, sir. That’s your sort! There she goes again, larking like a young kitten.”
“I didn’t know she’d dance about like this on a fine day,” said Rodd rather breathlessly.
“Bless your heart, sir, this arn’t nothing to what she can do. See how she’s skipping along now. Aren’t it lovely?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so,” said Rodd; “but if it’s like this in fine weather, what’s it going to be in a storm?”
“Why, ever so much livelier, sir. She’ll dance over the waves like a cork. She’s a beauty, that’s what she is. Mustn’t mind her being a bit saucy. There’s nothing that floats like a Salcombe schooner, and I never heard of one as sank yet.”
“Yes, uncle; back directly!” cried the boy; and he made his way onward to the cabin stairs without mishap, and re-appeared directly afterwards with the doctor’s big telescope under his arm, to make his way as well as he could to where Uncle Paul was standing forward at the side with his left arm round one of the stays.
“Walk straight, boy—walk straight!” cried the doctor, laughing. “What made you zigzag about like that?”
“Didn’t want to come down on the deck and break the glass, uncle,” said Rodd rather sulkily. “The schooner oughtn’t to dance about like this, ought she?”
“Oh, yes. It’s no more than the lugger used to do when we have been out fishing.”
“Oh, yes, uncle; and she’s so much bigger too. Besides, we were sitting down then, and here one has to stand.”