“Better and better still,” I said, in high glee, in which Sam Pengelly shared with a kindred feeling, while his sister put up her apron to her eyes, and began to cry at the idea of my going to sea. “Is she a large vessel?”
“Aye, aye, my cockbird. A barque of a thousand tons, or more, and her name’s the Esmeralda.”
Chapter Eleven.
Signing Articles.
“She’s loading at Cardiff—cargo o’ steam coals, I b’lieve, for some o’ them Pee-ruvian men-o’-war out there,” explained Sam, presently, when the first excitement occasioned by his announcement of the news had somewhat calmed down. “It’s lucky, laddie, as how the schooner’s all ready for sailing, as I thought o’ fetching down to Saint Mary’s morrer mornin’, arter some new taties; but the taties must wait now, and I fancy as how this arternoon tide’ll sarve jest as well for us—the wind’s right fair for the Lizard, too!”
“What, Sam—you don’t mean that, really?” exclaimed Jane Pengelly, not expecting such a hurried sending of me off to sea. “Surely not so soon, my man, eh?” She was almost breathless with grief and surprise.
“Aye, but I do mean it,” persisted he. “The shep’s a loadin’ now, I tell you, and she oughter start on her v’yage in a fortnight’s time at th’ outside; and if you reckon as how we’ll take a week to reach Cardiff, we’ll ha’ no time to lose, for, if the wind changes arter we rounds the Longships, we’ll ha’ all our work cut out to beat up the Bristol Channel, in time to see the lad comf’ably off!”
“My, Sam! couldn’t you take the train across country to Cardiff, when you’d all ha’ more time for getting ready, and I could see to mending all the poor dearie’s things before he goes for—it’ll be the last sight I’ll ever see of his blessed face?”