Mr. Drake was a little of an enthusiast about ships and sailors, and it was no wonder Rob took after him.
The next morning, when the great ferry-boat took over its biggest crowd of passengers, and ever so many teams and loaded wagons, Rob and his father were standing out in front by the railing, looking hard at every vessel they came near, and talking about them all.
When they landed in the city, they walked on from the ferry along South Street, which is lined on one side by warehouses, and on the other by docks and piers. The docks were all full of vessels, and the great bowsprits of the larger ships sometimes stuck halfway across the street to the buildings.
They were both so busy with the shipping that they hardly noticed anything on the other side of them, but suddenly Rob heard a cracked voice exclaim:
"Robert Fulton Drake. That was his name. Drake's a good one; but then— Fulton! I say, boy, look here!"
Rob looked, and so did his father.
There sat the old one-legged sailor, Jack Peabody, on the stone steps of one of the warehouses, with his bright gold star on his breast, and a cane in his hand.
Just beyond him, however, on the upper step, stood a beautiful model of a brig, with a hull about two feet long. She was completely rigged, sails and all.
"Look at that, sir. She'll float. She isn't top-heavy. No danger of her tipping over. Made her myself."
"Father," said Rob, "it's the very man. Don't you see the star? Oh, what a pretty brig!"