“Yes, a hull week; but that was in July. Still, there’s no knowin’. It may be in May this year.”
“Then we’ll have to go ashore in the boat tomorrow. I will. I’ll mutiny, and start off.”
So spoke Bart, and the rest all declared that they would do the same.
“O, we’ll have wind to-night,” said Captain Corbet, in a tone of vague encouragement. “Yes, yes, we must have wind to-night, or before morn-in’. We’ve had about calm enough. You feel anxious, no deoubt, all on ye,” he continued, with a superior smile; “but if you feel so, jedge what I must feel—me, with, my babby. Why, every minute,—yes, every mortial minute,—the voice of that there smilin’ babe is a-soundin’ in my ears. Sometimes he says, ‘GGa-ga-ga,’ and sometimes ‘Da-da-da;’ and sometimes the cunnin’ leetil human creetur emits a cry,—a favorite one of his’n,—that sounds jest like ‘Bo-rax! Bo-rax! Bo-rax!’ Isn’t it odd?”
And he looked at the boys with that mild face of his, whereon was intermingled an expression partly made up of a father’s affection, and partly of tender enjoyment of his little cherub’s innocent ways.
“And what does he mean by Borax?” asked Bruce.
“What does he mean? Why, a’most everything. It’s a pet name he gives to me, you know. That and ‘Ga-ga’—”
“I suppose he doesn’t know the English language yet.”
“No, he hain’t larned it yet; but he’s a-gettin’ on. Why, I could stand here for hours and tell you words of his’n. He’s uncommon spry, too. He—”
“Bart,” cried Bruce, suddenly, “start up a song. Sing ‘Uncle Ned.’”