"I am very, very sorry, sir," said Mrs Champernowne. "Of course I am
only a poor widow, and I let my apartments to gentlemen who come down
fishing or to take walks for their health over the moor. But your stay
down here has been something more than that. It has been a real
pleasure to me ever since you and the young gentleman have been here.
And not only am I very sorry that you are going away, but it has quite
upset me to hear that you are going sailing away over the stormy seas,
searching for all kinds of strange things in foreign abroad."
"Oh, come, come, Mrs Champernowne," cried Uncle Paul, as he saw the
poor woman lift up her apron and put one corner to her eye. "There
oughtn't to be anything in a naturalist's expedition to upset you."
"Ah, you don't know, sir," said Mrs Champernowne, speaking to Uncle
Paul, but shaking her head sadly at Rodd all the while. "I have had
those who were near and dear to me go sailing away quite happy and
joyful like, just the same as you and Mr Rodney might, and never come
back again, for the sea is a very dangerous place."
"Oh, perhaps so, and of course there are exceptions," said Uncle Paul;
"but as a rule people do come back safe."
"I don't know, sir," said the old lady, shaking her head sadly. "The
sea is very unruly sometimes. Hadn't you better take my advice, sir,
and stop here? The moor's very big, and surely if you and the young
gentleman look well you'll be able to find plenty of things to fill your
bottles, without going abroad."
"Can't be done, Mrs Champernowne," said Uncle Paul smiling. "Dartmoor
isn't the West Coast of Africa, nor yet the Cape of Good Hope, so, much
as we have enjoyed being here, we shall have to say good-bye, and live
in hopes of coming to see you again some day, for I haven't half worked
out the moor, nor yet a hundredth part."
"I am very, very, very sorry," said the old lady again, "but no doubt,
sir, you know best. When do you think of going, sir?"
"To-morrow morning, Mrs Champernowne. We can't let the grass grow
under our feet, can we, Rodd?"
"No, uncle," was the reply; and the next morning the portmanteau was
packed, the fishing-rod and naturalist's nets tied up in a neat bundle,
a light spring cart was drawn up at the door, and uncle and nephew were
soon on their way to the cross roads to take their chance of finding
room upon the Plymouth coach, which came within a few miles of the
widow's cottage.
They were fortunate, as it happened, and that evening they were safely
back at Uncle Paul's home, a pleasant little country house on the high
grounds overlooking the glorious harbour dotted with vessels, which
included several of the King's men-of-war, and within easy reach of the
docks.
"Ah," cried Uncle Paul that evening, as he strolled out into his garden,
in company with Rodd, who was carrying a telescope that looked like a
small cannon; "that was a fine air up on the moor, my boy, but nothing
like this. Take a good long deep breath. Can't you smell the salt and
the seaweed? Doesn't it set you longing to be off?"
"Well--yes, uncle," replied the boy, smiling and screwing up his face
till it was all wrinkled about the eyes; "but I begin to be a bit
afraid."
"Afraid, sir? What of?"
"That I shan't turn out such a good sailor as I should like to be."
"Why, what do you mean? Now, look here, Rodd; don't you tell me that
you want to back out of going upon this trip."
"Oh no, uncle," cried the boy eagerly. "I want to go, of course!"
"But what are you afraid of?"
"Well, you see, uncle, coasting about with you in a fisherman's lugger
for a few days, and always keeping within sight of land, is one thing;
going right away across the ocean is quite another."
"Well, sir, who said it wasn't?" cried Uncle Paul. "What then?"
"Suppose I turn ill, uncle?"
"Well, sir, suppose you do. Am I not doctor enough to put you right
again?"
"Oh, I don't mean really ill, uncle. I mean sea-sick; and it would seem
so stupid."
"Horribly; yes. You'd better be! Pooh! Rubbish! Nonsense! You talk
like a great Molly. Now, no nonsense, Rodney. Speak out frankly and
candidly. You mean that now it has come to the point you think it too
serious, and you want to shirk?"
"I don't, uncle; I don't, indeed, and I do wish you wouldn't call me
Rodney!" cried the boy earnestly.
"I shall, sir, _as long as I live, if you play me false now_."
"Oh, uncle, what a shame!" cried the boy passionately. "Play you false!
Who wants to play you false? I only wanted to tell you frankly that I
felt a bit afraid of not being quite equal to the sea. I want to go,
and I mean to go, and you oughtn't to jump upon me like this, and call
me Rodney."