“Yes, a starling,” said I, introducing Dick and telling them his history as we all went back into the house, keeping this a surprise and not mentioning about the little beggar in my letter from Shanghai. “I’ve brought him home for you, Nellie.”
“Oh, thank you, Allan,” she cried, hugging me again. “What a dear little fellow!”
“Ah, wait till you hear him talk,” said I, speaking to Dick and giving him my old whistle, “Dick, Dick!”
“Hullo!” cracked the starling, so comically, in Tim Rooney’s voice that they all burst out laughing, “here’s a jolly row!”
Dick then whistled a couple of bars, which was all he could accomplish, of “Tom Bowling,” after which he ejaculated his favourite expression, “Bad cess to ye!” in such a faithful imitation of my friend the boatswain’s manner that father smiled with the rest; although he said drily, “Your bird, Nellie, I hope will learn better language when he has been amongst us a bit longer!”
My chest arriving presently from the station, I had the happiness of showing them all that I had forgotten none when away; for I had got a Mandarin hat for Tom, and two old china jars I had brought for mother delighting her heart, while Ching Wang’s idol which I gave father especially pleased him. He became, too, I may add, all the more deeply interested in this little idol when I told him all the circumstances connected with it, and the impression the Chinaman’s devotion to his god had made on me.
I have little further to say, having now given a full, true, and faithful account of my first voyage; although I might point out to you that I was no longer a “green” apprentice, but now able to “reef, hand, and steer,” as “Old Jock,” or rather Captain Gillespie to speak more respectfully of him, said when I was leaving the ship, expressing the hope of having me with him on his next trip out, as I “had the makings of a sailor” in me, and was “beginning to be worth my salt.”
I had told father, though, so much about Tim Rooney, recounting all his kindness to me on board the Silver Queen from almost the first moment I saw him—almost, but not quite, the commencement of our first interview having been rather alarming to me—that nothing would suit him but my friend Tim’s coming down to Westham for a short visit, if only for a day.
Of course, I wrote to him, inclosing a letter father sent inviting him, and Tim came next day prompt as usual in his sailor fashion, winning all the hearts at the vicarage before he had been an hour in the place.
Father naturally thanked him for all that he had done for me, which made the bashful boatswain blush, while he deprecated all mention of his care of me.