The children needed no further invitation to Stumpy’s dwelling, for it was a museum of curiosities in their eyes, and Ronald gravely wondered how it could be safe to leave such priceless things within reach of the passers-by. True, there were no passers-by, except those with wings or fins, or traveling on four feet, but at any moment—why not?—a boat might draw up on the strand and a pirate, with a red sash and a knife in his teeth, leap to land and snatch the treasures.
“Stump-ery true,
I love you!”
crooned Lesley, as she sat down by a little table in the corner.
“Stump-ery’s a sailor,
Sure as I’m a tailor!”
sang Ronnie, climbing on a chair from which height he could see more easily the wonderful little ship on the mantelpiece.
“But you’re not a tailor, and you do make silly po’try!”
“Neither isn’t Stumpy a sailor, now, and maybe I’ll be a tailor, some time.... Oh, Lesley, isn’t this ship the most be-you-tiful thing you’ve ever seen since you lived in this country?”
Indeed it was a beautiful thing, the pride of Stumpy’s heart and the light of his eyes. He had bought it long ago in Mexico from the furnishings of a Spanish ship wrecked at sea and hauled into port by a passing barque. Whoever originally owned it had prized it dearly, for it stood under a glass case that rested on an ebony stand bordered with scarlet velvet. It was carved from creamy ivory—every mast, every spar, every sail in place, a miniature steersman at the helm and the Spanish ensign bravely floating at the peak. It sailed upon a painted sea sprinkled with tiny crystals of sand that sparkled like the blue waters around the island, and it was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful things that anybody had ever seen, no matter in what country he or she had lived.