"Well now," began Cilley, "that's a tale that not everyone knows,
don't you see. And Mistress Becky would not care to be reminded of it,
mark you, for reasons I shall shortly tell."
His eyes, humorous as they were, took on a shrewdness under their
sandy brows as if judging the character of the boy before him and his
ability to keep a secret.
"First and foremost," he said, "You had best know who I am." He leaned
back and hooked his thumbs under his armpits in a prideful gesture.
"My lad," said Ned Cilley, thrusting out his chin, "I am a member of
the _Mirabelle's_ crew!"
"The _Mirabelle_!" Chris exclaimed, "Why--that's the ship in the
bottle!"
"Aye," agreed Cilley, nodding sagely, "The model of it's in a bottle
right enough, since it's meself that made it, the last trip home from
the Chiny Seas."
"You made it _yourself_?" Chris breathed, looking aghast at the
gnarled knotted fingers, thick and roughened by work and weather,
picturing to himself the delicacy of the miniature ship that lay so
snugly in its transparent walls. "How in the world could you get it
inside?" he asked.
Ned wagged his head. "Ah, 'tis a trick and a tedious thing, no
mistaking, but there's time and to spare for it, coming home from
China."
"China? You've been there? What's it like?" Chris wanted to know, his
eyes eager.
Cilley smiled at him, a snaggled-toothed friendly grin. "That's a tale
for another time, my boy, for there's much telling there. You wanted
the story of Becky's fine hat."
"Yes--yes!" Chris urged. "Before she comes back."
"Well, now," began Cilley, "Bein' a member of the _Mirabelle_ and all,
means I see quite a bit of this port when we're home." He looked arch
as if Chris must know the reason for that. "An' seein' as how Mistress
Becky and me are fast friends, well--she's told me a thing or two that
not everyone knows."
He took a pull on the mug and wiped the froth from his lips.
"It seems," he began, "that in her younger days, Mistress Becky had
one craving. She'd seen this hat that she now wears, in a milliner's,
and have it she must.
"Now--" and the sailor leaned forward as the story held his own
interest--"now a hat of that sort costs many a shilling, and Becky
worked and saved for that bonnet for over a year." He eyed Chris again
closely. "If you tell what I tell ye, Chris lad," Cilley conjured him,
"I shall get even with ye, I swear I will! For I would never want to
hurt the feelin's of Becky Boozer, on my oath."
"I'll not tell, sir. Not to anyone," Chris assured him.
Ned Cilley seemed satisfied. "Well now," hunching closer with his
chair, "It seems at long last she paid for that bonnet, and decided to
wear it to the spectacle, that very afternoon."
"The spectacle?" Chris questioned, his forehead wrinkled. "What's
that?"
"Haw--Haw!" cackled Cilley, "You _are_ a country boy! Why--the
_spectacle_, where the players are. The _theatre_--what else?"
"Oh," Chris said shortly, and thought of television and the movies,
and held his tongue. He was beginning to try to fit himself into two
centuries before his own time.
"Yes," took up Cilley, "so as I was saying, Mistress Boozer bein'
young and flighty in them days, and rightful proud of the bonnet she
had took so long to earn, wore it to the spectacle, together with her
best gown.
"Now as you seem not acquainted with the theatre, me lad, let me tell
you that we give it here in any hall standing vacant, and out of doors
in fair weather, and we set the benches in rows for those that pay for
seats."
He pulled out an evil-smelling clay pipe and stuffed it with tobacco,
tamping it down with one grubby forefinger, and when it was well lit,
pointed the stem at Chris by way of emphasis.
"Mistress Becky gets herself a good place, on this occasion, and sits
herself down, a-tossin' of her feathers and her flowers, and as proud
as a peacock, every inch of her. The people pack the benches, and the
performance then begins.
"Rightly--" and Cilley jabbed the pipestem at Chris--"Rightly, only
ladies of quality wear such hats as Becky wore, and should they go to
the spectacle--which would be doubtful, for the crowd makes it no
place for gentlewomen--they would be sitting off apart, don't you see?
"But Becky sat spang in the center of the hall, and--you've seen the
hat? 'Tis big enough for two and no mistake, and spreads along as well
as up--well, the time came to begin. The players came out on the
stage, a-speakin' of their parts and abrandishin' of their arms as
they do, when all at once a gentleman sitting behind Becky Boozer
leaned forward and asked her--ever so polite--'Madam,' sez he, 'please
be so good as to remove your bonnet!'"
[Illustration]
Here Cilley leaned forward, one hand on his stomach to facilitate a
bow, aping as best he could the speech and manners of a gentleman. In
a flash he resumed his own character and turned to Chris.
"Well, did she take it off?" Ned demanded of Chris, frowning with
concentration. "'Twas asked with rare politeness, anyone would agree
to that." He shook his head solemnly. "Why no, Master Christopher,
that she did not! Our Becky had just paid the final pence upon that
hat, and after a year, seven months and eighteen days, the hat was
hers. She wanted all beholders to admire it. What cared she if the
gentleman seated on the bench behind her saw more of her bonnet than
of the play? In Becky Boozer's opinion, 'twas a more than fair
exchange! So she tossed her head, did Becky, and deigned not even a
reply."
[Illustration]
Cilley tossed his own sun-bleached thatch and pursed up his mouth in
imitation of Becky. Then, with another rapid change of grimace, he
squinted up his eyes to signify the growing intensity of the
situation, and leaning half-way across the table, shoved the dishes,
pies, and pickles out of his way with his elbows. His deep voice sank
to a husky whisper.
"So the performance went on, and never a glimpse of it did the poor
gentleman see, seated as he was behind our Becky Boozer. So once more
he bends forward and he speaks at her ear, urgent-like--"
Cilley's eyebrows rose and fell with his agitation. So strong was the
grip of the story upon him that it was evident that he fancied himself
at the play, and could see the whole thing before him as plain as day.
"The poor gentleman says again," he took up, "'Madam,' he says, 'I beg
of you--please to be so kind! Nothing of the spectacle can I see!
Please and be so good as to remove your hat!'
"And would you believe it, my lad--no." Ned Cilley shook his head from
side to side, "No, no, you would not." He leaned back, waving his hand
as if to wipe away any lingering doubt in Chris's mind. "Mistress
Rebecca Boozer was that proud--_that proud_"--he dropped his
voice--"that not for the world would she remove her bonnet. Dear me
no! She tossed her head again, feeling all them plumes a-tossin' too,
and sat up straighter than before. An' she a tall woman."
Master Cilley took a red bandanna handkerchief from his coattail
pocket and mopped his face, so excited and heated had he become at his
own telling of the tale. Then once more he leaned forward
confidentially.
"Well, little did she dream, our Becky Boozer. For when she tossed her
head the second time and made no motion to remove her hat, the
gentleman bent toward her, and--no doubt, his words were for her
alone. And this is what he said."
Ned Cilley's blue eyes popped and he cupped his hand by the side of
his mouth so that his words could carry no further than the few inches
dividing the boy and the man.
"He said--and so she told me, it did sound like a roar of thunder,
though no one else did seem aware of it--'So, then, Rebecca Boozer,
_wear_ your hat!' the gentleman said. 'The Devil himself shall have no
power to take it off'n you'!
"And do you know," whispered Cilley in a low rumble, his eyes starting
out of his head as were Chris's own, "'Tis our belief it must have
been the Devil himself who sat behind her there, for from that very
time Rebecca Boozer has been unable to remove that hat, neither by
pushing, pulling, prying, steaming, cutting, tearing, nor by any
method howsomever! The Devil it was! The Devil it must have been!"
Master Cilley, exhausted by his recital, fell back in his chair, with
just strength enough left to replenish his pewter mug from the jug of
ale. Then, refreshed, he set the mug down, wiped his lips, and cocked
an eye at Chris who sat staring at him open-mouthed.
"Try it yourself," he suggested wagging his head. "I have. You'll not
be able to heave it off, that I promise you. That hat is there for
good and all. Mistress Boozer will doubtless be buried in that
bonnet." He cocked his head the other way. "And what do you think of
_that_?" Ned Cilley enquired.
After a long and thoughtful pause Chris found his voice.
"Master Cilley," he said respectfully, "Does she--does she _sleep_ in
it?" he asked.
The picture of the elephantine Becky Boozer with a counter-pane under
her chin and the hat with twenty-four red roses and twelve waving
black plumes rising above the pillow took hold of the sailor's fancy.
He tipped back in his chair and laughed till he cried, and as he was
coughing and spluttering, Mistress Boozer herself came rustling out of
the passageway and across the kitchen to the table.
"Be off with you, boy!" she cried. "You and Cilley--you're two of a
kind, that is plain to be seen!"
She looked from one to the other and Chris decided that it was a good
thing for him that Becky likened him to the object of her doting,
Master Cilley.
"Get along with you!" she cried again, pulling Chris up out of his
chair by his coat collar. "You are wanted by the master in his study,
so look sharp! It's down the passage and to your right," Becky said,
"and knock before you go in!"
Chris started off, but in the dusk of the passage he looked back in
time to see Becky Boozer lost in tittering giggles and wild blushes as
Master Cilley, reaching up as high as his arm would go, chucked her
under the chin.