So this kid grew up into a great bearded goat, and became a favourite with every one in the village.
. . . . . .
Oh, these happy ocean picnics. Neither Barclay Stuart nor Davie Drake ever forgot them, and often on moonlight nights, when keeping watch in far-off foreign seas, they used to think and talk of them, till a big lump used to rise in Davie’s throat, and he could say no more.
Fishing went on briskly as long as the fish would bite. Then a halt was called, and as by this time it would be long past noon, the hamper was opened and dinner announced. The pies—some of them curry pies—made by Pandoo himself, were delicious, and abundant enough to have served a bigger boat’s crew. Then there were tarts and fruit galore, with ginger ale and lemonade to finish up with.
It would have done any one’s heart good to see the beaming faces of the children as they enjoyed their repast, laughing and talking prettily as they did so. Their rippling talk and laughter, Antonio told Pandoo, put him in mind of music-bells and bird-song.
Well, dinner over, the sloop cruised away along the beautiful coast.
In some places this was draped in the greenery of drooping trees, in others the cliffs were o’ertopped with green, green banks, where the whitest of sheep were grazing among orange-bright flowering furze. It was all charming, all beautiful, and sometimes for long minutes no one spoke, so pleasant and dreamy was the glamour shed over them by sunlight and sea.
But when the sun began to wester, Pandoo would serve out tea, which he made hot in a curious invention of Antonio’s. Then the sloop was put about.
Probably in returning the wind would be unfavourable, though seldom high.
This did not matter a great deal, however.