“That is, father,” said I innocently like—“the port-admiral gives that cruiser outside permission to go to sea?”
“Aye, Tom,” he answered, without suspecting what my inquiry was leading up to—“that’s just it. You’ve reckoned it up to a nicety, my hearty.”
Now came the opportunity for which I had been waiting.
“The old port-admiral may be a martinet, as they say, in the dockyard,” I said; “but he’s a kinder chap than you are, father.”
“The admiral kinder than me, sonny,” he repeated, in a surprised tone—“why, how’s that, Tom?”
“Because he gives leave when he’s asked for a fellow to go to sea.”
We were just then about midway between the Saint Vincent and the old Victory; and, startled by my thus unexpectedly broaching my masked battery, father dropped his oar and let the wherry drift along the almost motionless tideway towards the stern of Nelson’s whilom flagship, which was slowly swinging round nearer us on the bosom of the stream, thus showing that the ebb was setting in, or, rather, out.
“You owdacious young monkey!” he cried, slewing his head round on his shoulders, even as the old Victory’s hull slewed with the tide, so that he could look me full in the face. “So, my joker, that’s the little rig you’re a-tryin’ to try on with me, Master Tommy, is it?”
“It ain’t no rig, father,” said I sturdily, sticking to my guns, now that the cat was out of the bag. “I can’t see why you won’t let me go to sea. I’m sure I’ve asked you often enough.”