“‘Why,’ says Trixie,” went on the small woman, declining to anticipate the end of her story, “‘you’ll go and get lost.’ And I says, ‘Stuff and nonsense; if a grown-up woman of forty can’t take care of herself, who can? Besides,’ I says, ‘I want to see the dear boy.’ And Trixie says, ‘So did I.’”
“Oh, she said that, did she?” remarked Robert gratified. Other boys crowded round, preparing to invent humorous badinage.
“Ah!” said Miss Threepenny acutely, “and what’s more, she meant it.”
It required some courage for a boy of Robert’s age to escort the amazing little woman over the ship; urgent whispers from the other lads to be introduced to the new missis did not assist him. The Chief Officer nodded approvingly, and this gave encouragement.
“Booking clerk at Fenchurch Street,” chattered on the little woman, “gave me ’alf a ticket, and I gave him a bit of my mind. People think because I ain’t so tall as I might be that I ’aren’t got a tongue in me ’ead. They find out their mistake.”
“Is Mrs. Bell very ill?”
“She ain’t much longer for this world,” answered Miss Threepenny. “She may linger on for a year or two, but that good young gel of hers will be left all alone in the world before she’s very much older. Fortunately she’s got a wise ’ead on young shoulders and—What low ceilings they are ’ere.” The little woman bent her small body from an entirely unfounded fear of touching the roof with her sailor hat. “What’s this part of the ship called, Bobbie?”
“This,” explained the lad, “is called the foc’sle.”
“Why?”
“Ah!” said Robert, “‘why’ is the one word you mustn’t use on board ship.”