HE people of the little fishing village of Seaport were agreed on one subject, however much they might differ on others, namely, that Mr. Beveridge was “a wonderful learned man.” In this respect they were proud of him: learned men came to visit him, and his name was widely known as the author of various treatises and books which were precious to deep scholars, and were held in high respect at the universities. Most of the villagers were, however, of opinion that it would have been better for Seaport had Mr. Beveridge been a trifle less learned and a good deal more practical. Naturally he would have been spoken of as the squire, for he was the owner of the whole parish, and his house was one of the finest in the county, which some of his ancestors had represented in parliament; but for all that it would have been ridiculous to call a man squire who had never been seen on horseback, and who, as was popularly believed, could not distinguish a field of potatoes from one of turnips.  
It was very seldom that Mr. Beveridge ventured outside the boundary-wall of his grounds, except, indeed, when he posted up to London to investigate some rare manuscript, or to pore over ancient books in the reading-room of the British Museum. He was never seen at the meetings of magistrates, or at social gatherings of any kind, and when his name was mentioned at these, many shrugged their shoulders and said what a pity it was that one of the finest properties in the county should be in the hands of a man who was, to say the least of it, a little cracked.
 
Mr. Beveridge’s father, when on a tour in the East as a young man, had fallen in love with and, to the intense indignation of his family, married a Greek lady. Upon coming into possession of the property, two years later, John Beveridge settled down with his beautiful wife at the Hall, and lived in perfect happiness with her until her death.
 
She had had but one child, a boy, the present owner of the Hall, who was twelve years old when she died. Happy as she was with her husband, Mrs. Beveridge had never ceased to regret the sunny skies of her native land. She seldom spoke of it to her husband, who hunted and shot, was a regular attendant at the board of magistrates, and attended personally to the management of his estate. He was a man of little sentiment, and had but a poor opinion of the Greeks in general. But to Herbert she often talked of the days of her childhood, and imbued him with her own passionate love of her native country. This led him at school to devote himself to the study of Greek with such energy and ardour that he came to be considered as a prodigy, and going up to Oxford he neglected all other branches of study, mixed but little with other undergraduates, made no friends, but lived the life of a recluse, and was rewarded by being the only first-class man of his year, the examiners declaring that no such papers had ever before been sent in.
 
Unfortunately for Herbert his father died a few months before he took his degree. He had neither understood nor appreciated his son’s devotion to study, and when others congratulated him upon the reputation he was already gaining at the university, he used to shrug his shoulders and say, “What is the good of it? He has not got to work for his living. I would rather see him back a horse over a five-barred gate than write Greek like Homer.” He had frequently declared that directly Herbert took his degree he would go with him first for a few months up to London, and they would then travel together for a year or two so as to make him, as he said, a bit like other people.
 
Left to his own devices at the death of his father Herbert Beveridge did not even go home after taking his degree, but, writing to the steward to shut up the house, started a week later for Greece, where he remained for three years, by the end of which time he was as perfectly acquainted with modern as with ancient Greek. Then he returned home, bringing with him two Greek attendants, turned the drawing-room into a library, and devoted himself to his favourite study. Three years later he married, or rather his aunt, Mrs. Fordyce, married him. That lady, who was the wife of a neighbouring squire, came over and, as she said, took him in hand.
 
“This cannot go on, Herbert,” she said; “it is plainly your duty to marry.”
 
“I have never thought of marrying, aunt.”
 
“I daresay not, Herbert, but that is no reason why you shouldn’t marry. You don’t intend, I suppose, that this place, after being in the hands of our family for hundreds of years, is to be sold to strangers at your death. It is clearly your duty to marry and have children.”
 
“But I don’t know anyone to marry.”
 
“I will find you a wife, Herbert. I know half a dozen nice girls, any one of whom would suit you. You want a thoroughly good, sensible wife, and then, perhaps, there would be some chance of your becoming like other people.”
 
“I don’t want to become like other people, I only want to be let alone.”
 
“Well, you see that is out of the question, Herbert. You shirk all your duties as a large land-owner; but this duty, at least, you cannot shirk. Let me see, to-day is Monday; on Wednesday our gig shall be over here at half-past twelve, and you shall come over and lunch with me. I will have Miss Hendon there; she is in all respects suitable for you. She is fairly pretty, and very bright and domesticated, with plenty of common sense. She won’t have any money; for although her father’s estate is a nice one, she has four or five brothers, and I don’t suppose Mr. Hendon lays by a penny of his income. However, that matters very little. Now you must rouse yourself for a bit. This is an important business, you know, and has to be done. After it is over you will find it a great comfort, and your wife will take all sorts of little worries off your hand. Of course if you don’t like Mary Hendon when you see her, I will find somebody else.”
 
Herbert Beveridge resigned himself quietly, and became almost passive in this matter of his own marriage. He liked Mary Hendon when he had got over the shyness and discomfort of the first visit, and three months later they were married. He then went back to his library again, and his wife took the management of the estate and house into her capable hands. During her lifetime Herbert Beveridge emerged to a certain extent from his shell. He became really fond of her, and occasionally accompanied her on her drives, went sometimes into society, and was generally considered to be improving fast.
 
Ten years after marriage she died, and her husband fell back into his old ways. His life, however, was no longer quite solitary, for she had left him a boy eight years of age. He had been christened Horace, which was a sort of compromise. Mr. Beveridge had wished that he should have the name of some Greek worthy—his favourites being either Themistocles or Aristides. His mother had called in Mrs. Fordyce to her assistance, and the two ladies together had succeeded in carrying their point. Mrs. Fordyce had urged that it would be a misfortune for the boy to bear either of these names.
 
“He will have to go to school, Herbert, of course, and the boys would make his life a burden to him if he had either of the names you mention. I know what boys are; we have plenty of them in our family. If he were Aristides he would get the nickname of Tidy, which would be hideous. The other name is worse still; they would probably shorten it into Cockles, and I am sure you would not want the boy to be spoken of as Cockles Beveridge.”
 
“I hate common names,” Mr. Beveridge said, “such as Jack, Bob, and Bill.”
 
“Well, I think they are quite good enough for ordinary life, Herbert, but if you must have something classical why not take the name of Horace? One of Mary’s brothers is Horace, you know, and he would no doubt take it as a compliment if you gave the boy that name.”
 
And so it was fixed for Horace. As soon as the child was old enough to go out without a nurse, Mr. Beveridge appointed one of his Greek servants to accompany him, in order that the child should pick up a knowledge of Greek; while he himself interested himself so far in him as to set aside his books and have him into the library for an hour a day, when he always talked to him in Greek. Thus at his mother’s death the boy was able to talk the language as fluently as English. In other respects he showed no signs whatever of taking after his father’s tastes. He was a sturdy boy, and evinced even greater antipathy than usual to learning the alphabet, and was never so happy as when he could persuade Marco to take him down to the beach to play with the fisher children. At his mother’s death he was carried off by Mrs. Fordyce, and spent the next six months with her and in the houses of his mother’s brothers, where there were children about his own age. At the end of that time a sort of family council was held, and Mrs. Fordyce went over to Seaport to see her nephew.
 
“What were you thinking about doing with the boy, Herbert?”
 
“The boy?” he asked vaguely, being engaged on a paper throwing new light on the Greek particles when she entered.
 
 
“Naturally, Herbert, the boy, your boy; it is high time he went to school.”
 
“I was thinking the other day about getting a tutor for him.”
 
“Getting fiddlesticks!” Mrs. Fordyce said sharply; “the boy wants companionship. What do you suppose he would become, moping about this big house alone? He wants to play, if he is ever to grow up an active healthy man. No harm has been done yet, for dear Mary kept the house bright, and had the sense to let him pass most of his time in the open air, and not to want him always at her apron-string. If when he gets to the age of twenty he develops a taste for Greek—which Heaven forbid!—or for Chinese, or for any other heathen and out-of-the-way study, it will be quite time enough for him to take it up. The Beveridges have always been men of action. It is all very well, Herbert, to have one great scholar in the family; we all admit that it is a great credit to us; but two of them would ruin it. Happily I believe there is no record of a great scholar producing an equally great son. At any rate I do hope the boy will have a fair chance of growing into an active energetic man, and taking his place in the county.”
 
“I have no wish it should be otherwise, aunt,” Herbert Beveridge said. “I quite acknowledge that in some respects it would be better if I had not devoted myself so entirely to study, though my work has not been without fruit, I hope, for it is acknowledged that my book on the use of the digamma threw an entirely new light upon the subject. Still I cannot expect, nor do I wish, that Horace should follow in my footsteps. Indeed, I trust, that when I have finished my work, there will be little for a fresh labourer to glean in that direction. At any rate he is far too young to develop a bent in any direction whatever, and I think therefore that your proposal is a good one.”
 
“Then in that case, Herbert, I think you cannot do better than send him with Horace Hendon’s two boys to school. One is about his own age and one is a little older. The elder boy has been there a year, and his father is well satisfied with the school.”
 
“Very well, aunt. If you will ask Horace to make arrangements for the boy to go with his sons I am quite content it should be so.”
 
So Horace Beveridge went, a week later, by coach with his cousins to a school at Exeter, some forty miles from Seaport, and there remained until he was fourteen. He passed his holidays at home, never seeing his father until dinnertime, after which he spent two hours with him, a period of the day to which the boy always looked forward with some dread. Sometimes his father would chat cheerfully to him, always in modern Greek; at others he would sit silent and abstracted, waking up occasionally and making some abrupt remark to the boy, and then again lapsing into silence. When about the house and grounds Marco was his constant companion. The Greek, who was a mere lad when he had come to England, was fond of Horace, and having been a fisherman as a boy, he enjoyed almost as much as his charge did the boating and fishing expeditions upon which he accompanied him.
 
At this time Horace had a strong desire to go to sea, but even his Aunt Fordyce, when he broached the subject to her, would give him no hope or encouragement.
 
“If it had been ten years ago, Horace, it would have been another matter. The sea was a stirring life, then; and even had you only gone into the navy for a few years you would have seen lots of service, and might have distinguished yourself. As to staying in it, it would have been ridiculous for you as an only son. But now nothing could be more wretched than the position of a naval officer. All the world is at peace, and there does not appear to be the slightest chance of war anywhere for many years. Hundreds and hundreds of ships have been paid off and laid up, and there are thousands of officers on half-pay, and without the smallest chance of ever getting employment again. You have arrived too late in the world for sailoring. Besides, I do not think in any case your father would consent to such a thing. I am happy to say that I do not think he has any idea, or even desire, that you should turn out a famous scholar as he is. But to a man like him it would seem terrible that your education should cease altogether at the age at which boys go into the navy, and that you should grow up knowing nothing of what he considers the essentials of a gentleman’s education. No, no, Horace, the sea is out of the question. You must go up to Eton, as arranged, at the end of these holidays, and from Eton you must go through one of the universities. After that you can wander about for a bit and see the world, and you will see as much of it in six months that way as in twice as many years were you in the navy in these times of peace.”
 
Horace looked a little downcast.
 
“There is another thing, Horace,” his aunt said; “it would not be fair for you to go into the navy, even if there was nothing else against it.”
 
“How is that, aunt?”
 
“Well, Horace, when there are hundreds of officers on half-pay, who can scarcely keep life together on the few pounds a year they get, it would be hard indeed for young fellows with money and influence to step into the places and keep them out.”
 
“Yes, aunt, I did not think of that,” Horace said, brightening up. “It certainly would be a beastly shame for a fellow who can do anything with himself to take the place of a man who can do nothing else.”
 
“Besides, Horace,” his aunt went on, “if you like the sea so much as you do now when you have done with college, there is no reason why you should not get your father to let you either hire or buy a yacht and go where you like in her, instead of travelling about by land.”
 
“That would be very jolly!” Horace exclaimed. “Yes, that would be really better than going to sea, because one could go where one liked.”
 
 
And so at the end of the holidays Horace went up to Eton. On his return home in the summer his father said: “Your aunt was over here the other day, Horace, and she was telling me about that foolish idea you have of going to sea. I was glad to hear that you gave it up at once when she pointed out to you the absurdity of it. Her opinion is that as you are so fond of the water, and as Marco can manage a boat well, it would be a good thing for you to have one of your own, instead of going out always with the fishermen; the idea seemed to me a good one, so I got her to write to some one she knows at Exmouth, and he has spoken to the revenue officer there. They have been bothering me about what size it should be, and as I could not tell them whether it should be ten feet long or fifty, I said the matter must remain till you came home, and then Marco could go over with you to Exmouth and see the officer.”
 
“Oh, thank you very much, father!”
 
“It is only right that you should be indulged in a matter like this, Horace. I know that you don’t care about riding alone, and I am sorry I can’t be more of a companion to you, but I have always my hands full of important work, and I know that for a boy of your age it must be very dull here. Choose any boat you like. I have been talking to Marco, and he says that she can be hauled up on the beach and lie there perfectly safe when you are away. Of course if necessary he can have a young fellow or two from the village to help while you are at home. He seems to think that in that way you could have a boat of more comfortable size. I don’t know anything about it, so I have left the matter entirely to him and you. The difference of cost between a small boat and a large one is of no consequence one way or the other.”
 
Accordingly, the next morning Marco and Horace started directly after breakfast in the carriage to catch the coach, which passed along the main road four miles from Seaport, and arrived at Exmouth at two. They had no difficulty in finding the house of Captain Martyn, whose title was an honorary one, he being a lieutenant of many years’ service.
 
 
“Is Captain Martyn in?” Horace asked the servant who opened the door.
 
“No, sir; he is away in the cutter.” Horace stood aghast. It had never struck him that the officer might not be at home.
 
“His son is in, Mr. William Martyn, if that will do,” the servant said, seeing the boy’s look of dismay.
 
“I don’t know,” he said; “but at any rate I should like to see him.”
 
“I will tell him, sir, if you will stay here.”
 
A minute later a tall powerfully-built young fellow of two or three-and-twenty came to the door.
 
“Well, youngster, what is it?” he asked.
 
“I have come about buying a boat, sir. My name is Beveridge. I believe Captain Martyn was kind enough to say that he would look out for a boat for us.”
 
“Oh, yes, I have heard about it; but whether it was a dinghy or a man-of-war that was wanted we couldn’t find out. Do you intend to manage her single-handed?”
 
“Oh, no, sir! I have done a lot of sailing with the fishermen at Seaport, but I could not manage a boat by myself, not if there was any wind. But Marco was a sailor among the Greek isles before he entered my father’s service.”
 
“Want a comfortable craft,” the Greek, who had learned to speak a certain amount of English, said. “Can have two or three hands.”
 
“Oh, you want a regular cruiser! Well, you are a lucky young chap, I must say. The idea of a young cub like you having a boat with two or three hands to knock about in! Do you want a captain, because I am to let?”
 
“No, sir, we don’t want a captain, and we don’t want a great big craft. Something about the size of a fishing-boat, I should say. Are you a sailor?”
 
“Yes, worse luck, I am a master’s mate, if you know what that is. It means a passed midshipman. I have been a master’s mate for four years, and am likely to be one all my life, for I have no more chance of getting a berth than I have of being appointed a post-captain to-morrow. Well, I will put on my cap and go with you. I have been looking about since my father heard about a boat being wanted. The letter said nothing about your age, or what size of boat was wanted; it gave in fact no useful information whatever. It was about as much to the point as if they had said you wanted to have a house and did not say whether it was a two-roomed cottage or a country mansion. But I think I know of a little craft that would about suit you. Does your father sail himself?”
 
 
“WELL, YOUNGSTER, WHAT IS IT?”
 
Horace could not help smiling at the idea. “No,” he said. “My father cares for nothing but studying Greek. I am at Eton, but it is very slow in the holidays, and as I generally go out with the fishermen the best part of the time I am at home, he thought it would be a good thing for me to have a boat of my own.”
 
William Martyn looked quietly down at the lad, then went in and got his cap, rejoined them, and sauntered down towards the river. He led the way along the wharfs, passed above the town, and then pointed to a boat lying on the mud.
 
“That is the craft I should choose if I were in your place,” he said. “She is as sound as a bell, and I wouldn’t mind crossing the Bay of Biscay in her.”
 
“But she is very large,” Horace said, looking at her with some doubt in his face.
 
“She is about fifteen tons burthen,” he said, “built of oak, and is only eight years old, though she looks battered about and rusty as she lies there. She was built from his own designs by Captain Burrows, as good a sailor as ever stepped. She is forty feet long and fifteen feet beam. She is fast, and a splendid sea-boat, with four foot draft of water. He died three years after he built her, and she has been lying there ever since. Her gear has been all stowed away in a dry place, and the old sailor in charge of it says it is in perfect order. The old captain used to knock about on board of her with only a man and a boy, and she is as easy to handle as a cock-boat. I was out in her more than once when I was at home on leave, and she is a beauty. Of course you can’t judge of her as she lies there; but she has wonderfully easy lines, and sits the water like a duck. She is a dandy, you see; that is, she carries a small mizzen mast. She was rigged so because a craft like that is a good deal easier to work short-handed than a cutter.”
 
She seemed as she lay there so much larger than anything Horace had had the idea of possessing that he looked doubtfully at Marco.
 
“I think she will do,” the Greek said; “just the sort of boat for us. See her when tide comes up, and can go on board. How much cost?”
 
“They only want eighty pounds for her,” William Martyn said. “They asked a hundred and fifty at first; but everything is so dull, and there have been such a lot of small craft sold off from the dockyards, that she has not found a purchaser. If I had two or three hundred a year of my own there is nothing I should like better than to own that craft and knock about in her. Her only fault is she wants head-room. There is only five foot under her beams, for she has a low freeboard. That prevents her from being sold as a yacht. But as one does not want to walk about much below I don’t see that that matters. She has got a roomy cabin and a nice little stateroom for the owner, and a fo’castle big enough for six hands.”
 
“It would be splendid,” Horace said. “But do you think, Marco, my father meant me to have such a large boat as this?”
 
The Greek nodded. “Master said buy a good big safe boat. No use getting a little thing Mr. Horace tire of in a year or two. Can always get a man or two in the holidays. I think that is just the boat.”
 
“Tide has nearly reached her,” William Martyn said. “We shall be able to get off to her in an hour. We will go and overhaul the gear now. I will get the key of the cabins.”
 
It took them a good hour to get out the sails and inspect them, and examine the ropes and gear. All were pronounced in good order.
 
 
“The sails are as good for all practical purposes as the day they were turned out,” Martyn said. “They may not be quite as white as the fresh-water sailors about here think necessary for their pleasure craft, but they are sound and strong, and were well scrubbed before they were put away. And you may be sure Burrows used none but the best rope money could buy. Now we will go on board. She will look a different craft when her decks are holy-stoned, and she gets two or three coats of paint,” the young officer went on as they stepped on board. “A landsman can never judge of a boat when she is dismantled, and he can’t judge much at any time. He thinks more of paint and polish than he does of a ship’s lines.”
 
But Horace had seen enough of boats to be able to appreciate to some extent the easy lines of her bow and her fine run, and the Greek was delighted with her. Below she was in good order, except that she wanted a coat of paint. The cabins were of course entirely dismantled, but Horace was surprised at their roominess, accustomed as he was to the close little fo’castles of the fishing-boats.
 
“She was fitted up in a regular man-of-war fashion,” Martyn said. “This was just a captain’s cabin on board a frigate, but on a small scale, and so was the state-room. We did not see the furniture, but it is all upstairs in an attic of the cottage we went to.”
 
“How long would it take to get her ready?” Horace asked.
 
“About ten days. Most of her ballast is out of her, but the rest ought to come out so as to give her a regular clean down, and a coat of whitewash below, before it is all put in again. If you like, young ’un, I will look after that. I have got nothing to do, and it will be an amusement to me. I am looking for a berth at present in a merchantman, but there are such a number of men out of harness that it isn’t easy to get a job. Look here, if you really want to learn some day to be fit to take charge of this craft yourself, you could not do better than persuade your father to let you come over here and see her fitted up, then you will know where every rope goes, and learn more than you would sitting about on deck in the course of a year. There will be no difficulty in getting a couple of rooms ready for you and your man in the town.”
 
“Can we get home to-night, sir?”
 
“Yes, the coach goes through here at six o’clock.”
 
“My father will write to-morrow, at least I expect he will,” Horace said. “It isn’t very easy to get him to do things, but I expect I shall manage.”
 
“He will write,” Marco said confidently; and as the boy knew that the Greek had far more opportunities of getting at his father than he had, he felt sure that he would manage it.
 
“We are very much obliged to you, Mr. Martyn,” he said.
 
“All right, young sir. If your father decides to take the boat get him to write to me; or if he is bad at writing, write to me yourself after settling it with him, and I will put on men and see that she is ready for sea in a fortnight.”
 
“Do you feel sure father will let me have the boat, Marco?” Horace said as soon as they were alone.
 
“It is done,” the Greek said with a wave of his hand. “He said to me, ‘Go and buy a proper boat, see that everything is right about it, but don’t worry me.’ So when I say, ‘I have bought the boat; it is just the thing we want; it will cost a hundred pounds by the time it is ready for sea,’ he will say he is glad to hear it, and there will be an end of it. Mr. Beveridge never troubles.”
 
“And will you tell him that it would be a good thing for me to go over and see her fitted up?”
 
“I will tell him. He will be glad to know that you have got something to do.”
 
It was half-past ten o’clock when they got home. The other Greek opened the door.
 
“Is the master in bed yet, Zaimes?”
 
“He went upstairs ten minutes ago. I think he had forgotten all about Horace not being at home. He did not mention his name to me.”
 
“What a nuisance!” Horace said. “Now I shall have to wait till morning before I know about it, and I am so anxious to hear what he says.”
 
“It will be all the pleasanter when you hear,” Zaimes said quietly.
 
The two men were brothers, Zaimes being ten years senior. He was Mr. Beveridge’s valet, his brother being a sort of general assistant, waiting at meals except when Horace was at home, when he was considered specially told off to him. They lived apart from the other servants, having a room of their own where they cooked their meals in their own fashion. Both were extremely attached to their master, and would have given their lives for him.
 
“Marco will tell me all about it, and I will talk to the master while I am dressing him. You are making Marco again a boy like yourself, Horace. He is as eager about this boat as you are”; and he smiled indulgently at his brother, whom he still regarded as a boy, although he was now nearly forty.
 
“That will be the best plan, Zaimes. I shall be glad for him to know all about it before breakfast time, for I am sure I should not like to tell him that we had fixed on a boat like that.”
 
Horace was a long time before he got to sleep. He had never dreamt of anything bigger than an open boat, and the thought of having a craft that he could sail anywhere along the coast, and even sleep on board, seemed almost too good to be true. He woke an hour before his time, dressed hastily, went out into the garden, and stood there looking over the sea. The fishing-boats were going out, and he pictured to himself the boat he had seen, gliding along among them, bigger and ever so much handsomer than any of them; and how he would be able to take out his cousins, and perhaps some day have a school friend to spend the holidays with him and cruise about. So deep was he in his thoughts that he was surprised when he heard the bell ring for breakfast.
 
“Now, then,” he said to himself as he walked back to the house, “I shall know. Of course it will be a horrible disappointment if he says no, but I sha’n’t show it, because it is too much to expect him to do this. I should never have dreamt of such a thing if it had not been for Marco. Well, here goes”; and he walked into the parlour.
 
“Good morning, father!”
 
“Good morning, Horace. I am glad to hear that Marco has found just the boat that he thinks will suit the place. He tells me you want to go over and see her fitted out. I think that that will be a very good plan. When you do a thing, Horace, do it well if it is worth doing at all. Marco will go back with you by the coach this morning.”
 
“Oh, thank you, father; it is awfully kind of you!”
 
“I wish you to enjoy yourself,” his father said; “it is no more than the price of another horse. It is a fine sport and a healthy one, and I don’t know that it is more dangerous than galloping about the country on horseback. I have told Marco to make all arrangements, and not to worry me about things. At the beginning of each holiday he will say how much he will require for provisions on board, and the payment of the wages of a man and a boy. I shall give him a cheque, and there will be an end of it as far as I am concerned. I shall be much more at my ease knowing that you are enjoying yourself on board than wondering what you will do to amuse yourself from day to day.”
 
Thinking that all that was necessary had been said, Mr. Beveridge then opened a Greek book that lay as usual beside his plate, and speedily became absorbed in it. When he himself had finished, Horace slipped away. He knew that his father would be at least two hours over the meal, which he only turned to when Zaimes made a movement to attract his attention, everything being kept down by the fire, which was lit specially for that purpose, even in summer.
 
“It is all settled, Marco; think of that! Won’t it be glorious?”
 
“It will be very good, Horace. I shall like it almost as much as you will. I love the sea, even this gray ugly sea of yours, which is so different from the blue of the ?gean. I too mope a little sometimes when you are not at home, for though I have the kindest and best of masters, one longs sometimes for change. I told you your father would agree. It is just what I told him we should want. An open boat is no use except when the weather is fine, and then one must always keep close to port in case the wind should drop, and when it comes calm you have to break your back with rowing. Oh, we will have fine sails together, and as you grow older we can go farther away, for she should be safe anywhere. When you become a man I daresay he will get for you something bigger, and then perhaps we can sail together to Greece, and perhaps the master will go with you, for he loves Greece as much as we do.”
 
There was a fortnight of hard work. William Martyn was in command, and kept Horace at work as if he had been a young midshipman under his orders; while Marco turned his hand to everything, singing snatches of sailor songs he had sung as he fished when a boy, chattering in Greek to Horace, and in broken English to the two men.
 
“You are going to be skipper, I hear,” William Martyn said to him one day.
 
“Going to skip!” Marco repeated vaguely. “I know not what you mean.”
 
“Going to be captain—padrone.”
 
Marco shook his head. “No, sir. Can sail open boat good, but not fit to take charge of boat like this. Going to have man at Seaport, a good fisherman. He sailed a long time in big ships. Man-of-war’s man. When war over, came back to fish. I shall look after young master, cook food for him, pull at rope, steer sometimes; but other man be captain and sail boat.”
 
William Martyn nodded. “Quite right, Marco; these fishermen know the coast, and the weather, and the ports and creeks to run into. It is all very well in fine weather, but when you get a blow, a craft like this wants a man who can handle her well.”
 
Horace’s pride in the craft increased every day. As she lay weather-beaten and dismantled on the mud she had seemed to him larger but not superior in appearance to the fishing craft of Seaport, which were most of them boats of ten or twelve tons; but each day her appearance changed, and at the end of ten days—with all her rigging in place, her masts and spars scraped, her deck fairly white, and her sides glossy with black paint—she seemed to him a thing of perfect beauty. It was just the fortnight when the paint and varnish of the cabins were dry, the furniture in its place, and everything ready for sea. Horace’s delight culminated when the anchor was got up, sail set on her, and William Martyn took the helm, as with a light wind she ran down through the craft in the harbour for a trial trip.
 
“She is a wonderfully handy little craft,” the mate said approvingly, as she began to rise and fall on the swell outside; “the old captain knew what he was doing when he laid down her lines. She is like a duck on the water. I have been out in her when big ships were putting their noses into it, and she never shipped a pailful of water. I can tell you you are in luck, youngster. How are you going to take her round?”
 
“I was going to write to-night for Tom Burdett—that is the man Marco spoke about—to come over by coach.”
 
“I will tell you what I will do, youngster; I will take her over for you. I shall enjoy the trip. If you like we will start to-morrow morning.”
 
“I should like that immensely,” Horace said; “we shall astonish them when we sail into the port.”
 
“Very well, then, that is agreed; you had better get some stores on board; I mean provisions. Of course if the weather holds like this we should be there in the evening; but it is a good rule at sea never to trust the weather. Always have enough grub and water for a week on board; then, if you happen to be blown off shore, or anything of that sort, it is of no consequence.”