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Billy had heard and understood. When his dad sent him one of those "up and away" signals he never questioned its significance. He didn't like listening in secret, but surely he reasoned, a boy had a right to know just what was coming to him. And he knew what was coming to him, all right—a caning from the supple hickory ramrod—maybe! "Don't enter the cabin for half an hour. Then go in and clear up. And if she speaks, make no answer, and take no notice of her, but clean up the mess." "She's out on the bay," answered the father and lapsed again into brooding silence..

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The boys glanced at each other. "You tell him," whispered Billy, but Maurice shook his head. "No, you," he whispered back. Billy nodded. "Once. Flushed 'em at the top of the knoll and winged one bird. The rest of the covey flew into our barn-yard an' 'course he couldn't foller 'em in there." She was a little brig, and an immense but ragged British ensign fluttered at her trysail gaff-end. She had been painted black, but the fret of an ocean long kept, the hurl and whirl of prodigious seas which were like to founder her, the blistering heat of tropic suns,[Pg 352] the viewless fangs of the wind had so worn her sides that she was mottled with patches of different colour as though she was suffering from some distemper which ravaged vessels of her sort when the voyage was of great length. She rolled wearily, as though her old bones were worn out, and every time she hove her bilge to the eye she disclosed a very landed estate of weed, long, serpentine, trailing, like the huge eel-like growths which sway from black rocks in the white wash of breakers. Mr Lawrence exclaimed: "Oh, it's you! What do you want?".