But no. We would do nothing of the sort, but—the weather being fine and only a gentle breeze now blowing—go right into the little bay, and anchor before our own door.
And so we did.
Yonder it was, dear old-fashioned Trafalgar Cottage. We all looked at it through the glass. Nothing altered, nothing. Balcony, garden, railings, and climbers all the same.
But there were no signs of life about, though smoke came from the chimney.
Oh dear, how a sailor’s heart does beat with anxiety when he reaches once more his native land; and how he does keep worrying and wondering whether his relations and friends are alive and well!
We are in the bay now, and the anchor is let go. What a delicious sound is that of the chain running out! No music in the world is half so sweet.
“Jack, Jack!” cries Jill, who was forward in the bows, the wind blowing off the land. “Run, Jack, run!”
I rushed forward.
“What is it, Jill? What is it?”
“Robert bringing round Trots. Hurrah!”