Part 1 (1/2)

The Little Skipper.

by George Manville Fenn.

CHAPTER I.

The birds were singing their best one spring morning, and that means a great deal, for they can sing down in the New Forest on a sunny morning in May, and there was quite a chorus of joy to welcome the Skipper and Dot as they went out through the iron gate at the bottom of the garden.

The Skipper had on his last new suit of white duck, bound with blue, and his straw hat with the dark band bearing in gold letters ”H.M.S.

Flash”; a white plaited cord was round his waist, and a big pocket-knife dangled at his side. With his hat stuck back so as to show his curly brown hair, his blue and white collar over his shoulders, silk sailor-knot handkerchief, and his browned flushed face, he looked a thorough man-of-war's man.

Dot was in white and blue too--a bonnie-looking little girl of seven, dressed as if for a yachting trip, and as full of excitement as her nine-year-old brother, to whom she looked up as someone very big and strong, who would protect her from all the perils and dangers to which they might be exposed.

One must stop to say that ”The Skipper,” as his father always called him, was Bob, otherwise Robert Trevor; and Dot, so nick-named for reasons plain to see, was by rights Dorothy, and they had that morning been excused from lessons, because Captain Trevor had sent a message from Portsmouth that he was going to run over to lunch.

Mrs. Trevor had said a few words to the Skipper before they started about taking care, to which he replied rather importantly, ”Of course, Ma,” and about keeping his fresh suit clean; but Mrs. Trevor said nothing to Dot, because, there was no need, for she was about the most prim, neat little creature that ever lived. And, now she paced along by her brother's side, carrying two sticks with iron hooks at their ends, with which she walked in her precise measured way, as if they were wands, while the Skipper carried the ”Flash.”

Now, the ”Flash” was supposed to be a correct model of the big despatch boat commanded by Captain Trevor, but, it was very far from perfect, and no one knew this better than its owner. For Captain Trevor's beautifully swift gun-boat had three funnels amids.h.i.+ps, and powerful engines, while the Skipper's model, though it had sails that sent it swiftly through the water when there was a breeze, had a great deal of make-believe about it, the funnels being only pieces of zinc pipe tacked to the deck, the engines, the works of an old clock that would not go, placed in a cigar-box; the boiler, which was just under the funnels, a tin canister; and the furnace a small lamp that had once belonged to a magic lanthorn, the whole having been fitted neatly into the model by Tom Jeffs, c.o.xswain of the captain's gig, a very big ugly sailor, who took his orders seriously and worked under the Skipper's directions. When the lamp was lighted, as the Skipper said, n.o.body could tell, for when the water in the tin boiled, the steam came out of the funnels, and when the wind blew, it was almost as good as having real engines.

Tom Jeffs looked very serious over the work, and shook his head a great deal when it was done.

”You see,” he said, ”the steam looks right as right, but you don't get no help from these engines, because it's no use to them. The vessel has to carry the weight, and the screw stops her way. I shall have to make you a real engine someday;” but ”some day” had not yet come, though the Skipper did not forget to ask Tom about it every time he came back from a voyage, Tom Jeffs being his name, though the Skipper always called him ”Jack Robinson,” because he said he seemed so much like the sailor in a song he used to sing.

It was not far through the fir-trees. You could see the water glittering in the suns.h.i.+ne before you were half-way, but the Skipper had to stop twice.

”There's a nest up that tree,” he said. ”Wood-pigeon's. I could climb up there.”

”See how dirty it would make your clothes,” cried Dot.

”Well, they could be washed,” said her brother, in his lordly way. But he thought better of the climbing, and they went on, with their feet slipping in the fir-needles, till Dot dropped one of the sticks she carried and caught at her brother's arm.

”What's that?” she whispered.

”Bird: woodp.e.c.k.e.r tapping. There it is again.”

For a sharp sound was heard from close at hand, and directly after they caught sight of the little fellow that made the noise--a bright-looking bird with black and white markings and some scarlet feathers about its head.

The next minute it flew to another tree, and Dot picked up the stick she had dropped, and followed her brother out of the shady grove into the suns.h.i.+ne, to stand on the sandy sh.o.r.e of the beautiful lake of clear water, from which their home took its name of ”The Pool House.”

One side of the broad piece of water was sheltered by fir-trees, but the other was open, and from where they stood they could look right across it to the deep blue sea.

”Can you see Papa's s.h.i.+p, Bob?” asked Dot.

”Of course you can't,” cried the boy laughingly; ”it's miles and miles away, at Portsmouth.”

”Well, can't you see Portsmouth?” asked Dot.

”Of course not--without Pa's big telescope that he has on board.”

The Skipper set down his s.h.i.+p in the sand, trimmed the sails a little, took out the boiler and half filled it with water, put it back, and took a box of matches from his pocket; Dot looking on with a face screwed up, from the interest she took in the business. Then a match was struck, while she held the straw hat to shelter the flame; and kneeling there, with the model's keel buried deep in the sand, the Skipper lit the lamp, but not without scorching the foresail a little.