The Island of Gold: A Sailor's Yarn. Stables Gordon

Bob had thought this was all that remained of his master or not, I cannot say. I only state facts.

      But to hark back: after Ransey Tansey had seen all the nests he wanted to see, he and his two companions rushed off to a portion of the wood where, near the bank of the stream, he kept his toy ship under a moss-covered boulder.

      He had built this ship, fashioning her out of a pine-log with his knife, and rigged her all complete as well as his somewhat limited nautical knowledge permitted him to do. In Ransey’s eyes she was a beauty – without paint.

      Before he launched her to-day he looked down at Bob and across at the Admiral, who was quite as tall as the boy.

      “We’re going on a long and dangerous voyage, Bob,” he said. “There’s no sayin’ wot may happen. We may run among rocks and get smashed; we may get caught-aback-like and flounder,” – he meant founder – “or go down wi’ all han’s in the Bay o’ Biscay – O.”

      Bob tried to appear as solemn and sad as the occasion demanded, and let his fag-end drop groundwards.

      But the crane only said “Tok,” which on this occasion meant “All humbug!” for he knew well enough that Ransey Tansey was seldom to be taken seriously.

      Never mind, the barque was launched on the fathomless deep, the summer breeze filled her sails – which, by the way, had been made out of a piece of an old shirt of the boy’s father’s – and she breasted the billows like a thing of life.

      Then as those three young inseparables rushed madly and delightedly along the bank to keep abreast of the ship, never surely was such whooping and barking and scray-scraying heard in the woods before.

      But disaster followed in the wake of that bonnie barque on this voyage. I suppose the helmsman forgot to put his helm up at an ugly bend of the river, so the wind caught her dead aback. She flew stern-foremost through the water at a furious rate, then her bows rose high in air, she struggled but for a moment ere down she sank to rise no more, and all on board must have perished!

      When I say she sank to rise no more I am hardly in alignment with the truth.

      The fact is, that although Ransey Tansey could easily have made another ship with that knife of his, he was afraid he could not requisition some more shirt for sails.

      “Oh, I ain’t agoin’ to lose her like that, Bob,” said Ransey.

      Bob was understood to say that he wouldn’t either.

      “Admiral, ye’re considerabul longer nor me in the legs and neck; couldn’t ye wade out and make a dive for her?”

      The crane only said, “Tok!”

      By this time Ransey was undressed.

      “Hoop!” he cried, “here goes,” and in he dived.

      “Wowff!” cried Bob, “here’s for after,” and in he sprang next.

      “Kaik – kaik!” shrieked the crane, and followed his leader, but he speedily got out again. The water was deep, and as a swimmer the Admiral was somewhat of a failure.

      But the barque was raised all and whole, and after a good swim Ransey and Bob returned to the bank. Bob shook himself, making little rainbows all round him, and the boy rolled in the moss till he was dry, but stained rather green.

      Then he dressed himself, and looked at his watch – that is, he looked at the sun.

      “Why, Bob,” he cried, “it is time to go back to Babs.”

      It was such a lovely forenoon that day that the elderly Miss Scragley thought a walk in the woods and wilds – as she phrased it – would do her good. So she took her little six-year-old niece Eedie with her, and started.

      The butler wanted to know if he would send a groom with her. But she declined the service.

      “It is ever so much better,” she told Eedie, “going all alone and enjoying things, than having a dressed-up doll of a flunkey dawdling behind you carrying wraps.”

      I think Miss Scragley was right.

      The Scragleys were a very old family, and that was their mansion I have already mentioned as standing high up on the hill in a cloudland of glorious trees. But excepting Miss Scragley herself, and this little niece, Miss Eedie Moore, the rest of the Scragleys were all dead and away.

      Though the family estates were intact and financially secure, afflictions of all sorts had decimated the Scragleys. No less than two had died on the hunting-field; one, a soldier, had fallen on the field of fame in far Afghanistan; another, a captain in the royal navy, had succumbed to fever at sea; and still another had sailed away in a ship that never returned.

      Others had died in peace and at home. So Miss Scragley was indeed a relic of the past, but she was lord of the manor for the time being. Her heart was bound up in little Eedie; and the girl would have to change her name when of age, as she would then be heir to all the Scragley estates. Even if she married, her husband must become a Scragley. It would never do to let the glorious name of Scragley die out.

      But Miss Scragley was somewhat antiquated though not very old; somewhat set up and starchy in manner too. She preferred to import good people from London to mixing with the residents around, with the exception of the kindly-faced, white-haired old rector, Captain Weathereye, R.N., and Dr Fairincks.

      In bygone ages it was currently believed that this rough old sea-dog of a captain, Weathereye would lead the then graceful Miss Scragley to the altar, and the lady herself still believed that the happy event would yet come off.

      And she was quite gay when she thought of it. At Christmas-time, when she imported more good people from London than usual, and turned on the family ghost for the occasion, when she had the special brand of port decanted that old Weathereye so dearly loved, and when Scragley Hall resounded with mirth and laughter, and was lighted up from basement to attics, Miss Scragley nursed the fond hope that the captain was almost sure to pop the question.

      Old Captain Weathereye praised the port. But – well, he loved to hear corks popping, only he wouldn’t pop himself.

      Poor Miss Scragley!

      “I wonder will he ever?” she used to remark to herself, when she had finished saying her prayers and was preparing to undress – “ever —ever?”

      “Never – never,” old Weathereye would have unfeelingly replied had he heard her.

      On this particular occasion Miss Scragley extended her walk far into the very wood – forest, she romantically called it – where Ransey Tansey and his pets were enjoying themselves.

      She and her niece wandered on and on by the banks of the stream, till they came to the place where little Babs lay, still sound asleep in her hammock, and this was swaying gently to and fro in the summer wind.

      “O Eedie!” cried Miss Scragley, “why, I’ve found a child!”

      “Oh, the wee darling!” exclaimed Eedie; “mayn’t I kiss it, auntie?”

      “If you kissed it,” said the lady, as if she knew all about babies and could write a book about them – “if you kissed it, dear, it would awake, and the creature’s yells would resound through the dark depths of the forest.”

      “But there is no one near,” she continued; “it must be deserted by its unfeeling parents, and left here to perish.”

      She went a little nearer now and looked down on the sleeping child’s face.

      A very pretty face it was, the rosy lips parted, the flush of sleep upon her face; and one wee chubby hand and arm was lying bare on the shawl.

      “Oh dear!” cried Miss Scragley, “I feel strangely agitated. I cannot let the tiny angel perish in the silvan gloom. I must —you must, Eedie – well, we must, dear, carry it home with us.”

      “Oh, will ye, though?” The voice was close behind her. “Just you leave Babs alone, and attend to yer own bizness, else Bob will have somethin’ till say to ye.”

      Miss