Tom Fairweather sighed as he stood on the quarter-deck. "Holiday-time,
indeed!" said he. "What are the holidays without snow, I'd like to know?
I'd give a good deal for a real old-fashioned coasting lark to-day, but
I don't believe these people ever heard of such a thing."
It was a balmy day off the island of Madeira, where Tom's ship, or
rather his father's, lay. Here spring and summer reign the year round.
"Old-time coasting is what you would like, eh, Tom?" said Lieutenant
Jollytarre, with a twinkle in his eye. "Ask your father to let you go
ashore with me, and I'll give you a frolic that you'll not be apt to
forget."
Captain Fairweather gave his consent, and they hurried off.
A ten minutes' pull took them close to the island; but this Madeira
shore is so steep that it makes an uncomfortable landing for a
man-of-war's boat. Another boat, one belonging to the shore men, lay off
waiting for passengers. Into this Tom and the lieutenant stepped, and
were rowed close to the beach by two Madeira men.
As soon as the boat's bow touched the beach, two other men standing
there made fast to it one end of a rope of which the other was attached
to two strong oxen. At the word these oxen started, and up glided the
boat over the round smooth pebbles, so easily that Tom was astonished to
find himself at the top of the bank. With a laugh he jumped out. "That
was a coast up hill, sure enough," he said. "Was that what you meant?"