“I wish you’d come too,” said Tom; “can’t you?”
“Oh, do,” said Jill; “it would be twice as nice.”
“Mr Armstrong has enough of all of us on working-days,” said Rosalind rather cruelly, “to forego a chance of being rid of us on a holiday.”
“Quite so,” said the tutor, trying to enjoy the situation; “when the mice are away the cat will play—on the piano.”
The next day promised well for the picnic; and Roger had sufficiently warmed up to the proposed expedition to be able to enter eagerly into the preparations.
The Pulpit Island, a desolate cavernous rock three miles from the coast, dominated by a lighthouse, was a familiar hunting-ground of his in days gone by, and he decidedly enjoyed the prospect of doing the honours of the place to his cousins now—particularly one of them.
As not a breath of air was stirring, they decided not to encumber the small boat with mast or sail, but to row leisurely across with just as much energy as suited their holiday humour. The channel was on the whole free from currents, and, as Roger knew the landing-places as well as the oldest sailor in the place, any precaution in the way of a pilot was needless.
Armstrong, as he watched the little craft slowly glide over the glassy water, dwindling smaller and smaller, but sending back the sound of voices and laughter long after it itself had become an indistinguishable speck in the gleaming water, wished himself one of the crew. But as fate had ordained otherwise he retreated to his piano, and succeeded in irritating Captain Oliphant considerably by his brilliant execution, vocal and instrumental, of some of his favourite pieces.
The day, however, was too hot even for music, and after an hour’s practice Mr Armstrong gave it up and took a book.
But that was dull, and he tried to write some letters. Worse and worse. The place was stifling, and the pen almost melted in his hand.