Swallowdale. Arthur Ransome

his shoulder. They were nearing the jetty, and looking up the field to the old farm he saw someone in a blue frock sitting on a chair outside it. That must be mother, and the small lump of blue beside her must be Bridget playing about on the grass.

      “Easy,” said Captain Flint.

      A moment later, John was scrambling up on the jetty.

      “Hang on to the painter,” said Captain Flint. “I’m just going up to talk to your mother. If you give her the news you’ll tell her about Swallow first and then she’ll think that half the crew are drowned. Better let me tell her, and then she’ll begin by knowing that she hasn’t had the luck to lose any of you.”

      He had vaulted up on the jetty and was through the gate and striding up the field before John had time to answer.

      John wondered. Would he have begun by telling mother he had wrecked Swallow? Why, of course he would. What else was there to say? How on earth would Captain Flint begin in any other way?

      He looked up the long, steep, field, up which Roger had tacked like a sailing ship that day, a year ago now, when daddy’s telegram had come to say they might sail in Swallow and camp on the island. He saw Captain Flint wave his hat, mop his bald head with his big red-and-green handkerchief, and shake hands, first with mother and then with little Bridget. Then he saw him sit down on the grass. Everything looked peaceful and happy, as if there could be no news of shipwrecks in the air. Suddenly mother jumped up out of her chair.