Uncle Frank paused a moment, nodded, and made room for Bobbert’s father, while the grandfathers crowded up and the aunties peeped under and over.
On the floor before the well-swept kitchen hearth sat David; beside him, a little space away, squatted Bobbert, a long black hockey-stick in his hand. Between them were arranged large pieces of coal from the hod—arranged in what appeared to be nine-pin patterns.
“I shall attack from the right at daybreak. You’ll see what the Mosquito Fleet can do, Mr. David! Your clumsy old Spanish ships can’t move quick enough! Can they?”
“Wait and see, Bob, my boy!”
“This coal makes dandy ships—don’t it? A lot of coal would be a fine present—wouldn’t it? They use wood upstairs, and I don’t believe I could get hold of any. Are you enjoying yourself, David?”
“You bet I am, Bob. Put your flagship in line.”
“Well, I will. She was out for—for repairs. When I go skating, David, I’ll never use any other hockey-stick. I wanted a black one next to a boat. You were lovely to give it to me. I’ll be big enough for a boat next year, I hope.”
“Well, now it’s daybreak. Lieutenant, are you ready?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Begin the fight!”