Syd Belton Part 7

"Harry, my lad, if I were you I should take this spark up to town and see Dashleigh at once. I'll go with you."

"Very well. And he can be measured for his kit at the same time, eh?"

"Of course. Mind the tailor makes his clothes big enough, for as soon as he gets to sea he'll grow like a twig."

Syd sat stirring his coffee, and taking great bites out of his bread and b.u.t.ter, as the words of Pan came back to him--"If he does I shall run away, so there!"

CHAPTER THREE.

There was something tempting about that idea of being measured for a uniform, though Syd declared to himself he hated it. All the same, though, he went down the garden to where Barney was digging that morning, and after a little beating about the bush, asked him a question he could have answered himself, from familiarity with his father's and uncle's garb.

"I say, Barney, what's a captain's uniform like?"

"Uniform, my lad?" said the old boatswain, seizing the opportunity to rest his foot on his spade, and began rubbing the small of his back, or rather what is so called, for Barney had no small to his back, being square-shaped like a short log. "Well, it's bloo coat, and white weskutt and breeches, and gold lace and c.o.c.ked hat, and two gold swabs on the shoulders."

"And what's a lieutenant's like?"

"Oh, pooty much the same, lad, only he's on'y got one swab on 'stead o'

two. But what's the good o' your asking?--you've seen 'em often enough in Southbayton."

"Oh, but I never took any notice. What's a midshipman's like?"

"Bloo, my lad, and a bit o' white on the collar."

"And a c.o.c.ked hat?"

"Oh yes, a c.o.c.ked hat--a small one, you know."

"And a sword, Barney?"

"Well, as to a sword, lad," said the old sailor, wiping a brown corner of his mouth; "it arn't right to call such a tooth-pick of a thing a sword. Sort of a young sword as you may say, on'y it never grows no bigger, and him as wears it does. Dirks, they calls 'em, middies'

dirks."

"A uniform and a sword," said Sydney to himself. "A blue uniform with white on the collar, and a c.o.c.ked hat and a sword!"

It was very tempting, and the boy went on down by the side of the lake, beyond which were the great trees, with the ragged nests of the tall birds which gave the name to the captain's residence, where he had settled to end his days well in view of the sea.

Here where the water was smooth as gla.s.s Sydney stood leaning over, holding on by a bough, and gazing at his foreshortened image, as in imagination he dressed himself in the blue uniform, buckled on his dirk, and put on his c.o.c.ked hat.

It was very tempting, but disinclination mastered vanity, and he turned away to go back toward the house.

"I wonder whether Pan means it," he said to himself. "Suppose we went together to seek our fortunes; he could be my servant, and father and Uncle Tom would forgive me if I came back rich."

But somehow in a misty way as he walked up to the back of the house, half thinking that he would sound the boy, it hardly seemed to be the way to seek a fortune to start off with a servant.

He had nearly reached the yard when a door was thrown open, and the object of his search rushed out, followed by a shower of words and shoes, which latter came pattering out into the yard as a shrill voice cried--

"A nasty, lazy, good-for-nothing young scamp--always playing with that dog instead of doing your work. Not half clean--not fit to be seen."

Syd drew back, thinking to himself that Pan could not be much happier than he was himself with the red-faced cook, who ruled over all the servants, to play tyrant to the boy as well.

"Now what could two lads do if they went right away?" mused Syd. "We couldn't go abroad without going to sea. I don't think I want to be a soldier, and we're not big enough if I did. I know--we'd go to London.

People seek their fortunes there."

He seated himself beneath the walnut tree to think it out, but somehow the idea of running away did not seem bright. It was less than a hundred miles to London by the coach-road, and if they walked all the way it did not seem likely that they would have any adventures.

Syd felt in despair, for life seemed as if it must be a terribly dull place without adventures.

He thought he would not run away for two reasons. One that it would look cowardly; the other that it did not look tempting.

"There does not seem any chance of meeting with adventures unless you go to sea," he said to himself. "I wish there was no sea in the world."

A loud voice from the other end of the garden, followed by another, took his attention.

"Poor old Pan catching it again," mused Syd. "Everybody seems to scold him."

The dull sound of a blow, a howl, and then a rushing noise explained by the appearance of Panama Strake, who was dashing helter-skelter across the garden, as regardless of flower-bed and tree as a young colt that had broken through a hedge.

"Hi! Pan, where are you going?" cried Syd.

The boy glanced once in his direction, but did not stop running on as hard as he could go for the front entrance, and directly after the gate was heard to bang.

"Some one must have hit him," thought Syd. "Poor old Pan, he's always in trouble. Why, I kicked him last week," he added remorsefully.

"Seen my boy Pan, Master Syd?" said a hoa.r.s.e voice.

"Yes; he came running by here like a wild bull. Have you been hitting him?"

"Hitting of him?" growled the ex-boatswain; "on'y just wish I'd had a rope's-end 'stead o' this here," and he held up the handle of the rake he had been using. "On'y time to give him one tap and he was gone."

"Enough to make him go. What was the matter, Barney?"

"Heverythink, Master Syd. That there boy's gettin' worse than you."

"Oh! is he?"

"Growlin' and grumblin' at any mortal thing. Won't do his work, and says he won't go to sea, just the same as you do; and now he's been sarcing the cook."

"For saying the boots and shoes were not clean."

"How do you know, Master Syd?"

"I saw her throwing them at him. You'd no business to hit him with that rake shaft."

"What! No business to hit him? Why, he's my own boy, arn't he? All right then, Master Syd; there's an old wagon rope in the shed, I'll lay up a bit o' that--hard; and on'y just wait till he comes back, that's all. Won't be a sailor, won't he! I'll let him see. If he won't be able to write AB at the end of his name 'fore he's one-and-twenty my name arn't Barnaby Strake."

The old boatswain went off growling; and in the lowest of low spirits, Syd went indoors, to make his way to the library, shut himself in, and begin taking down the books from the dusty shelves, seeking for one which dealt with adventures.