We Didn't Mean to Go to Sea. Arthur Ransome

want to talk about it,” said he. “I wouldn’t either. There’s no excuse for going aground in a place like that. Lucky for them they’re in the river.”

      “Why?” said Roger.

      “Easily lose the boat going aground outside. Let alone the chance of being salvaged by a lot of pirates, like poor old Ell-wright who had that boat before them. . . ”

      “Pirates?” said Titty.

      “Longshore sharks,” said Jim. “Same thing. That’s right, Susan. Carry right on. Carry right on for Shotley Spit buoy. Yes, the big one right ahead now. A shallow runs right out to it from the point. See that ripple and the gulls on the mud?”

      “Do tell us about the pirates,” said Titty.

      “Wait till we’re at anchor and I can get at the chart and show you just what happened,” said Jim.

      “Where are we going to anchor?” asked John.

      “Jolly good place,” said Jim. “Off Shotley Pier in the Stour, so that we can nip ashore and let your mother know I haven’t drowned you.”

      “Telephone?” said Susan.

      “Yes. There’s one close to the end of the pier. There’s the pier. You can just see it now. But we’ve got to get round the Spit buoy before turning.”

      The Goblin had left the river now and was sailing out into the wide waters of Harwich harbour where the Stour and the Orwell meet before pouring out into the sea. Far away over blue rippled water they could see tall mills by Felixstowe Dock, and the green sheds which Jim told them were for seaplanes, and a huge gantry for lifting the planes out of the water, and a low fort of stone and earthwork on a sandy point. On the other side was another low point, and the houses of Harwich, and a white lighthouse on the water’s edge, and dark wooden jetties, and barges at anchor. Three big vessels were lying quite near them, near enough for them to see the flags on the jackstaffs. Jim pointed out a Dutch motor vessel, a Norwegian timber-ship with a tremendous deck cargo of golden sawn planks, and a rusty-sided Greek with a tattered flag of blue and white stripes.

      “But where are the boats that go to Holland?” asked Titty.

      Jim pointed away up the Stour, where, on the Harwich side, they could see the masts and funnels of the mailboats along the Parkeston quays.

      A small dumpy steamboat came hurrying out from the Harwich jetties. Its deck was crowded with people.

      “That’s the ferry,” said Jim. “It runs between Shotley and Harwich and Felixstowe.”

      “We’ll be going by it,” said Roger. “We’ll be going to Harwich to meet Daddy’s steamer as soon as we know which day he’s coming.”

      They sailed on as far as the first of the big anchored steamships, and then swung round to work their way up into the Stour.

      “We’re hardly moving,” said Roger.

      “Tide’s against us,” said Jim. “But it’s all right. She’s creeping over it.”

      Slowly, though the water was swirling past the Goblin’s sides, they drove up, past the Spit buoy, past Harwich town, past the Trinity House steamer, past a group of anchored barges.

      “See those vessels?” said Jim. “The red ones, with lanterns half-way up the mast, lightships in for repairs. There’s the Galloper. Her place is thirty miles out. . . There’s the Outer Gabbard. Each one shows a light of its own, you know, flashes so that you can tell which it is, and each has its own fog signal.”

      “We’ve seen ones like them,” said Titty, “in Falmouth. Daddy used to say they came in for cough lozenges when their throats got sore.”

      “I was forgetting you knew all about them,” said Jim. “Have you heard the Cork yet? That’s our local nightingale.”

      “Four moos a minute,” said Roger. “John timed them, the evening we came. Miss Powell told us what it was.”

      “If there’s any mist you’ll hear it better tonight,” said Jim. “It’s a good deal nearer when you’re down here. Close by those piers, Susan. We’ll anchor just beyond the last of them. Well, what do you think of Shotley? If your father’s going to be stationed here I expect you’ll get some sailing in some of those boats. They all belong to the Navy.”

      They looked up at the buildings on Shotley Point, houses, a water tower, and a flagstaff on the naval school as tall as the mast of a sailing ship. On one of the black, wooden piers were a lot of grey naval cutters and whalers and gigs. If Daddy’s coming to Shotley meant sailing in those boats, and living somewhere up there, able to look down on Harwich harbour and on the ships coming in and out, things were going to be very good indeed. They looked at the place as people look at a stranger with whom they know they are going to have a lot to do.

      SHOTLEY PIER

      Slowly the Goblin crept by the first of the piers.

      “Only just enough wind,” said Jim. “Can’t take off sail till the last minute. Keep her going just as she is, close past the far pier. Bring her into the wind when I shout. I’m going forrard to get the anchor ready.”

      “Can I come too, to see how you do it?” said John.

      “Come on.”

      Susan, Titty and Roger were alone in the cockpit. Susan was steering just as well as she knew how.

      “They’ll want those headsail sheets cast off at the last minute,” she said, not taking her eyes off the pier ahead. “You take one, Titty, and Roger the other, and be ready when he shouts.”

      Up on the foredeck Jim was stocking the big anchor, and ranging a lot of chain on deck, while John sat on the cabin roof watching everything he did.

      Jim was lowering the anchor over the bows. “You have to be careful the stock doesn’t catch on the bobstay,” he said, and John took a good grip of the forestay and looked over Jim’s shoulder and saw how the anchor hung free at the Goblin’s forefoot, all ready to let go.

      “Now for the staysail,” said Jim.

      From the cockpit the others watched, Susan doing her best not to think of anything but her steering. The staysail came rattling down. John was bundling it out of the way, while Skipper Jim was standing up judging the distance they had gone beyond the pier.

      “Straight into the wind,” he called. “Cast off the jib sheet.”

      “That’s yours,” said Titty, and Roger cast it off. The jib was rolling up on itself. The boom swung slowly over the cockpit. Jim was stooping again. There was a sudden rattle and roar as the chain ran out, and the anchor went down.

      “We’ve arrived,” said Titty.

      “Susan’s still steering,” said Roger.

      Susan with a sigh of relief let go of the tiller.

      “Who’s for the shore?” called Jim Brading from the foredeck.

CHAPTER V

      SLEEPING AFLOAT

      “WHO’S for the shore?”

      “I am,” shouted Roger.

      “Let’s all go,” said Titty.

      But Susan looked through the cabin to the clock that was fixed on a bulkhead under the barometer.

      “Hadn’t they better have supper first?” she said. “It’s after their time and Mother’s sure to ask.”

      “Right, Mister Mate,”