She used to square her moustache and lips, and emit a series of short little mews.
“What a lovely bird, Teenie!” she seemed to say. “Just put it down on deck till I see it. I wonder how it tastes.”
When the bird had rested, Teenie kissed its poll, and let it fly away, to look for its mammy, as she phrased it.
But Mother Carey’s chickens—the stormy petrels—used to dart from wave to wave, much to Teenie’s delight. They were very beautiful, though as dark as ink, and the sounds they emitted were music to the child’s ears.
Only they never came on board.
Southward and southward went the Zingara, and every one in the best of spirits, until they reached that most beautiful isle of the sea, Madeira.
Not only is it beautiful, but wild and grand in the extreme.
Here the ship was brought to anchor, and Antonio went on shore, leaving the vessel in charge of the mate.
A beach of great sea-smoothed boulders hurtles back and fore on this coast night and day, so that landing would indeed be difficult, if it were not that there are always plenty of willing hands—Portuguese and half-castes—to rush forward and haul the boat high and dry.
Our young heroes—yes, we have three of them now—were enchanted with all they saw; and Antonio was delighted, because they were. The broad pavements shaded by awnings and green palm-trees, the curious shops, the strange but prettily dressed men and women—all were new to them, and put Barclay in mind of a scene in a pantomime he had once witnessed.