“I told ’ee they’d come in their togs, old woman,” said the smith, as his son Tom appeared, dusting the snow from his Coastguard uniform, on the breast of which was displayed the gold medal of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution.
“You might be sure of that, mother, seeing that we had promised,” said Dick, the blithe and hearty man-of-war’s man, as he printed a kiss on his mother’s cheek that might have been heard, as he truly said, “from the main truck to the keelson.” At the same time bushy-browed Harry, with the blue coat and brass epaulettes of the fire-brigade, was paying a similar tribute of affection to his sister, while fiery Bob,—the old uniform on his back and the Victoria Cross on his breast,—seized his father’s hand in both of his with a grip that quite satisfied that son of Vulcan, despite the absence of two of the fingers.
They were all deep-chested, strong-voiced men in the prime of life; and what a noise they did make, to be sure!
“You’re not too soon, boys,” said the smith; “old Moll has been quite anxious about a mysterious something in the big pot there.”
“Let me help you to take it off the fire, mother,” said the gallant tar, stepping forward.
“Nay, that’s my duty,” cried Harry, leaping to the front, and seizing the pot, which he dragged from the flames with professional ability.
When the something was displayed, it was found to be a gorgeous meat-pudding of the most tempting character—round and heavy like a cannon-ball. Of course it did not flourish alone. Old Moll had been mysteriously engaged the greater part of that day over the fire, and the result was a feast worthy, as her husband said, “of the King of the Cannibal Islands.”
“Talking of Cannibal Islands,” said Dick, the sailor, during a pause in the feast, “you’ve no idea what a glorious place that Pacific Ocean is, with its coral islands, palm-groves, and sunshine. It would be just the place to make you well again, Molly. You’d grow fat in a month.”
“Ha; get fat, would she,” growled Bob, the soldier, “so as to be ready for the first nigger-chief that took a fancy to have her cooked for supper—eh? Never fear, Molly, we won’t let you go to the Cannibal Islands. Give us another cut o’ that cannon-ball, mother. It’s better eating than those I’ve been used to see skipping over the battlefield.”
“But they’re not all Cannibal Islands, man,” returned Dick; “why, wherever the missionaries go, there the niggers get to be as well-behaved as you are. D’you know, Molly, I’ve really been thinking of cutting the service, and emigrating somewhere, if you and Fred would go with me.”