A few minutes sufficed to bring them alongside the buoy, which was one of the largest size, shaped like a cone, and painted in alternate stripes of white and black. It rose high above the heads of the men when they stood up beside it in the boat. It was made of timber, had a wooden ring round it near the water, and bore evidence of having received many a rude buffet from ships passing in the dark.
“A nice little buoy this,” said Billy, looking at it with the eye and air of a connoisseur; “wot’s its name?”
“The North Goodwin; can’t ’ee read? don’t ’ee see its name up there on its side, in letters as long as yerself?” said Jack Shales, as he stirred up the paint in one of the pots.
“Ah, to be sure; well, it might have bin named the Uncommon Good-win,” said Billy, “for it seems to have seen rough service, and to have stood it well. Come, boys, look alive, mix yer colours an’ go to work; England expecks every man, you know, for to do his dooty.”
“Wot a bag of impudence it is!” said Dick Moy, catching the ring-bolt on the top of the buoy with the boat-hook, and holding the boat as close to it as possible, while his mates dipped their brushes in the black and white paint respectively, and began to work with the energy of men who know that their opportunity may be cut short at any moment by a sudden squall or increasing swell.
Indeed, calm though the water was, there was enough of undulation to render the process of painting one of some difficulty, for, besides the impossibility of keeping the boat steady, Dick Moy found that all his strength could not avail to prevent the artists being drawn suddenly away beyond reach of their object, and as suddenly thrown against it, so that their hands and faces came frequently into contact with the wet paint, and gave them a piebald appearance.
For some time Billy contented himself with looking on and chaffing the men, diversifying the amusement by an occasional skirmish with Stanley, who had armed himself with a brush, and was busy helping.
“It’s raither heavy work, sir, to do all the judgment business by myself;” he said. “There’s that feller Shales, as don’t know how a straight line should be draw’d. Couldn’t ye lend me your brush, Jack? or p’raps Dick Moy will lend me his beard, as he don’t seem to be usin’ it just now.”
“Here, Dick,” cried Stanley, giving up his brush, “you’ve had enough of the holding-on business; come, I’ll relieve you.”
“Ay, that’s your sort,” said Billy; “muscle to the boat-’ook, an’ brains to the brush.”