“And where shall we get water here?” she asked. “Tell me that!”
His answer came quick enough, the Captain being seldom “taken aback.”
“You forget, ma’am, the little rivulet we passed on our way. Dick,” he added, “run and fetch some for us, like a good lad.”
Nell had brought with her from home a little tin bucket, which she usually took down to the shore for collecting sea-anemones and other specimens for her aquarium; so, catching hold of this, Dick started off in the direction of the tiny brook they had crossed some little time before, returning anon with the bucket brimming full.
Miss Nell and Bob thereupon set to work in high glee at their extempore ablutions; and, when they had subsequently dried their faces in their pocket-handkerchiefs, both presented a much improved appearance.
With the exception of a few scratches, they bore little traces of the fray, the blood-stains, which looked at first sight so very dreadful, having vanished on the application of the cold water, as the Captain had prophesied.
“There, ma’am,” cried he now exultingly; pointing this out to Mrs Gilmour, “I told you so, didn’t I? ‘all cry and little wool,’ eh, ho, ho, ho!”
“That may be,” retorted she; “but, water won’t mend Nellie’s dress.”
“Well then, ma’am, I will,” replied the Captain. “You’ll always find a sailor something of a tailor, if he’s worth his salt!”
He laughed when he said this, and his imperturbable good-humour banished the last vestige of Mrs Gilmour’s vexation at the children’s plight.