THE "FLOWER OF ARRANDOON"--OLD AP'S COTTAGE--TRIAL TRIPS AND USEFUL
LESSONS.
I do not think that, during any period of his former life, Allan
McGregor's foster-father was much happier than he was while engaged,
with the help of his boy friends, in getting the cutter they had bought
ready for her summer cruise among the Western Islands.
They were not quite unassisted in their labours though; no, for had they
not the advantage of possessing skilled labour? Was not Tom Ap Ewen
their right-hand man; to guide, direct, and counsel them in every
difficulty? And right useful they found him, too.
Thomas was a Welshman, as his name indicates; he had been a boatbuilder
all his life. He lived in a little house by the lake-side, and this
house of his bore in every respect a very strong resemblance to a boat
turned upside down. All its furniture and fittings looked as though at
one time they had been down to the sea in ships, and very likely they
had. Tom's bed was a canvas cot which might have been white at one
time, but which was terribly smoke-begrimed now; Tom's cooking apparatus
was a stove, and, saving a sea-chest which served the double purpose of
dais and tool-box, all the seats in his cottage were lockers, while the
old lamp that hung from the blackened rafters gave evidence of having
seen better days, having in fact dangled from the cabin deck of some
trusty yacht.
Tom himself was quite in keeping with his little home. A man of small
stature was Tom. I will not call him dapper, because you know that
would imply neatness and activity, and there was very little of either
about Tom. But he had plenty of breadth of beam, and so stiff was he,
apparently, that he looked as if he had been made out of an old
bowsprit, and had acted for years in the capacity of figure-head to an
old seventy-four. Seen from the front, Tom appeared, on week-days, to
be all apron from his chin to his toes; his hard wiry face was
bestubbled over in half its length with grey hairs, for Tom found the
scissors more handy and far less dangerous than a razor; and, jauntily
cocked a little on one side of his head, he wore a square paper cap over
a reddish-brown wig. Well, if to this you add a pair of short arms, a
pair of hard horny hands, and place two roguish beads of hazel eyes in
under his bushy eyebrows, you have just as complete a description of
Thomas Ap Ewen as I am capable of giving.
This wee wee man generally went by the name of Old Ap. Of course there
were ill-natured people who sometimes, behind Tom's back, added an _e_
to the _Ap_; but, honestly speaking, there was not a bit of the ape
about him, except, perhaps, when taking snuff. Granting that his
partiality for snuff was a fault, it was one that you could reasonably
strive to forgive, in consideration of his many other sterling
qualities.
Well, Tom was master of the yard, so to speak, into which the purchased
cutter was hauled to be fitted, and although McBain did not take _all_
the advice that was tendered to him, it is but fair to say that he
benefited by a good deal of it.
It would have done the heart of any one, save a churl, good to have seen
how willingly those boys worked; axe, or saw, or hammer, plane or
spokeshave, nothing came amiss to them. Allan was undoubtedly the best
artisan; he had been used to such work before; but generally where
there's a will there's a way, and the very newness of the idea of
labouring like ordinary mechanics lent, as far as Ralph and Rory were
concerned, a charm to the whole business.
"There is nothing hackneyed about this sort of thing, is there?" Ralph
would say, looking up from planing a deck-spar.
"There is a deal to learn, too," Rory might answer. "Artisans mustn't
be fools, sure. But how stiff my saw goes!"
"A bit of grease will put that to rights." Ralph's face would beam
while giving a bit of information like this, or while initiating Rory
into the mysteries of dovetailing, or explaining to him that when
driving a nail he must hit it quietly on the head, and then it would not
go doubling round his finger.
Old Ap and McBain were both of them very learned--or they appeared to be
so--in the subject of rigging, nor did their opinions in this matter
altogether coincide. Old Ap's cottage and the yard were quite two
miles--Scotch ones--from the castle, so on the days when they were busy
our heroes would not hear of returning to lunch.
"Isn't good bread and cheese, washed down with goat's milk, sufficient
for us?" Ralph might say.