THE CRUISE OF H.M.S. "DREADNOUGHT."
"Shall we call this a boat out at sea,
We four sailors rowing?
Can you fancy it? Well, as for me,
I feel the salt wind blowing.
Up, up and down, lazy boat!
On the top of a wave we float;
Down we go with a rush.
Far off I see the strand
Glimmer; our boat we'll push
Ashore on fairyland."
--A. KEARY.
And now it is time to return to the two little travellers.
The big red barge-boat came swinging slowly through the lock as the
children came close to the canal. They were too late to get aboard
there, and they hung back in disappointment and indecision. After
clearing the lock and exchanging a word or two with the woman at the
toll, the bargeman had laid himself down upon a heap of empty sacks, to
take a nap most probably, leaving his boy in charge of the tiller. Soon
bargee was wrapped in slumber, and the boy buried in a penny dreadful.
Darby and Joan did not desire to disturb either of them. They were
anxious above all things to get on board the boat unnoticed; so, after a
hurried consultation carried on in whispers, they agreed that their best
plan would be to walk on to the next stopping-place--a tiny clump of
cottages and a shop or two, called by courtesy a village--and make sure
of embarking there. This hamlet was only about half a mile off. They
could reach it easily before the barge; and keeping well in the shelter
of the fringe of alders, osiers, and reeds that grew thickly in the
marshy ground below the tow-path, lest the man or the lad should look
about and spy them, the children trotted straight along, with their
eager eyes steadfastly fixed upon the far-off hills in front.
Bargee was soon snoring lustily; the boy seemed to find his story
all-absorbing; the old brown horse knew every step of the way, foot for
foot, better than either of them, and required no guiding: consequently
the little ones were in scarcely any danger of detection. Besides, even
if the man or the boy on board the canal-boat had noticed the pair
stealing along behind the bushes, neither would have thought of
challenging their presence or casting upon them more than a passing
glance. They would have simply accepted them for what they appeared to
the casual observer--two cottage children who were either altogether
motherless or sadly neglected--and then forgotten all about them. For,
to be quite candid, they looked far from respectable--entirely unlike
the trim, spotless little persons whom Perry had dressed with such care
and precision only some hours before; bearing but small resemblance in
their general cut to the dainty figures which had run the gauntlet of
Aunt Catharine's eagle eyes as they sat opposite to her at breakfast
early that morning.
Soon after the children's arrival at Firgrove, Miss Turner had gone
carefully through their clothing,--adding a number of fresh garments to
their stock, discarding others which had been purchased according to
Perry's idea of fitness as being entirely unbecoming or unsuitable,
laying aside for distribution among her poor a goodly quantity that had
grown either so small or so shabby as to be altogether unfit for further
wear--by Captain Dene's children and Miss Turner's young relatives, that
is to say.
Upon this store Darby had drawn; for with an eye to thrift which would
have done credit to Aunt Catharine herself, and expectation of the fresh
and beautiful rig-out awaiting them in the land for which they were
bound, he considered that it would be sheer and sinful extravagance to
carry away with them any clothes, except what they could with an easy
conscience cast aside--as Christian left _his_ rags behind when by the
Shining One he was dressed anew.
Picture them then, please!
Darby wore a velveteen suit which had once been black, but now, from
stress of wear and weather, had turned a sickly green. From the scrimpy
legs of the knickerbockers his knees shone bare and brown. Out of the
sleeves, that reached only half-way below the elbows, his arms stuck
freely, showing a broad band of untanned wrist between the button-less
cuffs and the chubby, sunburnt hand. A pair of sadly-scuffed shoes,
which originally had been nut-brown calf, were held upon his feet by one
solitary button and a piece of string; while his headgear consisted of a
sailor-hat, with battered brim, and blue ribbon band so stained and
faded that only with difficulty one could make out the name upon its
silken surface--H.M.S. _Dreadnought_--a most appropriate one for the
ship in which this dauntless mariner sailed, for he had in truth a brave
and fearless spirit!
As for Joan, she appeared to be even more after the tinker type than
Darby. Her cotton frock had once upon a time been pink and pretty as a
double daisy. Now it was washed-out, worn, and, sad to say, in several
places torn. At different points the skirt had rebelliously escaped from
the confinement of gathers round the waist; the back gaped open where in
sundry spots the hooks and eyes had quarrelled and agreed to meet no
more. On her shining golden curls she had set a cast-off garden-hat
belonging to Aunt Catharine, of brown straw, in what was known as the
mushroom shape. Surmounting Joan's tiny figure it looked exactly like a
small umbrella, which hid her blue eyes, and shaded her pink-and-white
complexion so completely that several times Darby stooped down, peeped
under the floppy brim, crying merrily, much to his sister's amusement,
"Anybody at home to-day? any one within here?" Her feet were dressed
somewhat after the same fashion as her brother's; while round her
shoulders, crossed in front and tied by Darby's fumbling fingers in a
clumsy knot behind, was a faded tartan shoulder-shawl that had once been
Perry's, but for many a month and day had been used as the nursery
blanket of all the invalid dolls in Joan's large family.
They were a pair, without doubt. No one could have known them a little
way off, not even their father or nurse--well, not nurse certainly,
although their father might, if he had glanced at them a second time;
for love's eyes are keen, and not mother-love itself is deeper,
stronger, truer than a good father's for his trusting children.
Bargee slept soundly on his couch of empty corn-sacks; the lad was still
lost in his story; the brown horse went slower and slower, pausing now
and again to snatch a mouthful of grass from the bank beside his feet,
until at length he stopped altogether, and, settling himself comfortably
on three legs, he shut his eyes and prepared to follow his master's
example.
The little ones were now some way in advance of the boat; but when they
looked back and observed that boat and horse had come to a standstill,
they agreed that they also might rest awhile, and joyfully threw
themselves down upon the soft, cool meadow grass, taking good care to
keep well out of sight of those other two afloat upon the canal.
"I's hungry--werry," said Joan, with a tired sort of sigh. "Isn't it
never near dinner-time yet, Darby?"
"Yes, I think it must be by this time," replied Darby, looking knowingly
in the direction of the sun, as he had seen Mr. Grey and Green the
gardener do. "And if it isn't it ought, for I'm hungry too. Come, and
we'll eat some of our biscuits and things."
"But there's no meat or potatoes or puddin'. It won't be real dinner
wifout meat," grumbled Joan.
"Well, we can't have real dinner--pilgrims on a long journey never
do--but we can make believe that we have. Won't that do instead, Joan?"
asked Darby anxiously.
"Yes, it'll do quite well--to-day," answered Joan, jumping up and
beginning in true housewifely fashion to set out their repast.
From each child's pocket came a crumpled pocket-handkerchief, not very
large, and, if the truth must be told, not over clean. These Joan spread
on the grass to serve as a tablecloth. Then Darby proceeded to
distribute the rations for the midday meal--to each a tiny tart, a slice
of seed-cake, one biscuit, and a mellow russet pear.
"Now, isn't that a lovely dinner?" he demanded proudly; "and there's
nearly--not quite, but almost--as much more for tea," he added, peering
into the depths of the old reticule which was slung, haversack fashion,
across his shoulders.
"Yes, it's 'licious," agreed Joan, with her mouth full of cracknel
biscuit. Now cracknels are rather dry eating, and when one's mouth is
otherwise occupied it is not easy to speak distinctly. However, the
biscuit went over with an effort, and Joan's mouth was free for further
speech. "It's a puffic'ly 'licious dinner," she repeated. "Why, if we'd
been at home instead of goin' to the Happy Land, nurse would only have
given us chops, and maybe rice and jam."
"Yes; she's always giving us things like that, and they've hardly any
taste. When I'm big I'll never eat rice or mutton, but nice, nippy,
mustardy meat, like what father used to give us from his dinners. We
never get nothing like that now," sighed the little boy, as if he were
very badly used indeed.
"It's because Aunt Catharine doesn't think they're good for you,"
replied Joan wisely. "I heard her tellin' cook to be sure an' give the
chil'ens plenty of pow'idge, bread an' milk, an' lots of busted rice. I
wonder why she calls the rice busted."
"It's not 'busted'," corrected Darby, laughing gleefully; "it's _burst_
you mean!"
"It doesn't matter which, I'm sure, for it's just nonsense to speak
about rice bein' busted. It's us that's busted when we've eated great
plates of it--nashty, messy stuff!" and Joan turned up her dainty little
nose in disgust at what she was so tired of hearing called "plain,
wholesome food."
Then she sighed heavily.
"What's the matter with you?" anxiously asked Darby. "Have you not had
enough?"
"Yes, I've had enough--at least--it doesn't matter. I was only wishin'
we had a drink of milk. I don't want to be gweedy; but oh, I does want a
drink so badly! I's so awful thirsty. 'Twas the biscuits, I'm sure,"
added Joan apologetically.
"I'm afraid I forgot to bring any milk," said Darby regretfully.
"There's lots of water in the canal, of course. I could carry you some
in my hat; but then I don't think it's very clean."
"I'm sure it looks all right," replied the little girl, grasping eagerly
at her brother's idea. "It's brown, but see how it sparkles!"
"Come on, then, and I'll lift you out some," assented Darby. "But you
mustn't take much, mind; just what will wash down that biscuit, for it
_was_ dry!"
They crept up the bank of the canal in shelter of a sheaf of tall reeds.
Together they crouched upon the brink. Joan held Darby's hand fast while
he leaned down and with his hat ladled her up a small measure of the
doubtful-looking liquid, which she swallowed greedily and pronounced the
nicest water she had ever tasted--better even than milk.
Darby shook the moisture from his hat and waved it in the air to
dry--backwards, forwards, round and round, faster and faster. It was
almost dry. A few more turns would complete the process, and he twirled
it quicker still, when all at once it went flying from his fingers,
skimming right into the middle of the canal, hopelessly out of reach!
He gazed after it with such a blank look that Joan laughed gleefully.
Away it went, sailing slowly along, the blue ribbon trailing like a tail
behind; on, on, farther and farther, until at length, behind a clump of
osiers that hung over the bank and dipped into the water at a bend in
the canal, the watchers lost sight of the gallant little craft--H.M.S.
_Dreadnought_!
"It's gone!" said Darby ruefully. "Well, it's a good thing that it was
only an old one," he continued, in a cheerier tone. "I'm just as comfy
without a hat. Perhaps it'll be to one of those big schools where the
boys wear nothing on their head but their hairs that father will send me
by-and-by, so I'd best be getting used to going without. And in the
Happy Land hymn, although it tells about the robes--at least, I expect
it's them that's 'bright, bright as day'--there's not a word about what
they wear on their heads, except a crown, and one couldn't wear anything
else along with that."
"I wants another drink," whimpered Joan after a pause, preparing to lay
hands on Aunt Catharine's mushroom hat. "Take my hat, Darby; it'll hold
lots and lots of water. That ho'wid old cracknel's stickin' in my froat
yet," and she gasped piteously, like a chicken with the pip.
"Certainly not," answered Darby decisively, putting down his foot, so to
speak, in his most masterful manner. "You can't have any more of that
bad water. Don't you know it's very dangerous to drink bad water?
There's funny little beasts living in it called microscopes. They get
into the blood and carry on dreadful. They give people fever, and typus,
and palsy, and cholera-mortis, and--and--I don't know what all," and he
took a long breath, having somewhat exhausted the supply along with his
list of horrors. "I heard Dr. King telling Auntie Alice all about it one
day."
Joan heard him out with open mouth and wondering eyes. How clever Darby
was! He knew everything--almost! Her admiration was short-lived,
however. Soon she returned to the charge, and with the skirt of her
cotton frock at her eyes, she wailed anew,--
"I want a drink, I do, or my tea. Bo--o--o! I wants my tea!"
"Don't think any more about being thirsty, Joan, like a good girl,"
coaxed her brother, laying his arm lovingly round his little sister's
shoulders. "That's the right way to do when you've got a pain or
anything that won't get better--just pretend it's not there. Or we'll
make believe that we've had our tea--although it's only done being
dinner-time--and that nurse has just handed us our second cup, and, by
mistake for her own, put four lumps of sugar in it. My, isn't it sweet!"
And Darby smacked his lips, but Joan did not lift her head. "Maybe we'll
get some nice fresh water when we get into the barge," he added, seeing
that his first tactics had failed. "And when we reach the Happy Land
there'll be oceans of it--streams and streams of pure, sparkling water,
clear as crystal! Think of that, Joan!"
The prospect, though pleasing, was too remote to satisfy Joan's
immediate craving, or fancy rather, for she was not nearly so thirsty as
she indicated, and she kept on whimpering,--
"Bo--o--o! I want a drink--I wants my tea!"
Darby always felt helpless when Joan went on crying in that persistent
way, and he looked about him in despair. Then he started up in haste, at
the same time dragging at his sister's hand.
"Come on!" he cried. "See, the horse has started; the _Smiling Jane_'s
moving. They're a good way in front. We'll have to run a bit to catch up
on them."
Thus opportunely diverted from brooding on her grievance, Joan quickly
dried her eyes, trotted contentedly along by her brother's side, and
soon they arrived quite close to the rude wharf, where the boat would
stop long enough to deliver the goods intended for the village and take
in some fresh cargo to be handed out at one of the hamlets further on.
As the boat came in a number of people were collected on the wharf
waiting to receive their goods, because to this out-of-the-way place
the canal-boat served instead of a carrier's cart; therefore all kinds
of things--from bags of corn, tons of coal, sacks of potatoes, down to
small packages--were sent and received by this route, and the arrival of
bargee and his boat made quite a break in the uneventful lives of the
inhabitants of that remote, far-scattered district. They chatted,
laughed, shouted, and bandied jokes with each other and the bargeman,
who had sprung from his craft the moment she was made fast to the wharf,
and stamped about, up and down, as if he was glad to find himself with
plenty of elbow-room once more.
In the hubbub and general bustle the children had little or no
difficulty in stealing unobserved on board the barge. They had been on
her once before with a friendly old bargeman but recently retired to
give place to a younger, more active man, who was a stranger on the
route, consequently did not know the little folks from Firgrove. Darby
drew Joan behind him, and making straight below for the bunker, called
by courtesy the cabin, they curled themselves up on an old rug in its
farthest, darkest corner, where, worn out with excitement and fatigue,
they soon fell fast asleep.