Leading Stoker Brown obeyed the order almost too promptly. Like a jack-in-the-box he leapt up the steep ladder and stood—his crimson robes fluttering in the breeze—upon the deck. As one the crowd of children gave back, the young ones clinging tearfully to their parents.
“Sixpence to the first girl who shakes hands with Father Christmas!” announced Kenneth.
No one accepted the invitation.
Father Christmas, awkwardly shifting his well-laden bag from one shoulder to the other looked appealingly and reproachfully at his superior officer.
“Will I get sixpence if I shake hands with Father Christmas?” asked a red-haired freckled boy of about seven.
“Certainly,” replied Kenneth, guessing that if the ice were broken the rest of the children would overcome their fears.
“Go shake ‘ands wi’ Fayther Christmas, Jimmy lad!” prompted his mother.
The youngster, with his arms behind his back and his feet planted sturdily apart, calmly scanned the burly figure of the disguised leading stoker.
“Eh, mither!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t you tell me Fayther Christmas came down the chimney and put that engine in my stocking the morn? If that’s Fayther Christmas, he be too girt to come down our chimney. There’s a catch in it somewheres. All right, maister,” he continued, turning to address the midshipman. “Gimme the sixpence an’ I’ll do it!”
Kenneth gave him the coin, which he promptly handed to his father with the warning to remember that it was “my sixpence not yourn!”