He spoke in
short, jerky sentences. He was dressed as a seafaring man; had wide,
helpless-looking brown eyes, an apologetic smile, and a bass voice
of appalling depth and power. "Boat's aground," he repeated, seating
himself on the grass and looking about for a stem of grass long enough
to put in his mouth. "Hard and fast. Waiting for tide to turn; thought
I'd come, pass time o' day."
"And how came you to run her aground?" inquired the child, severely.
"A pretty pilot you are! Why, I could steer her myself better than
that."
"Fog!" replied the man, in a meek and muffled roar. Then finding a
bit of sorrel, he fell upon it with avidity, and seemed to think he
had said enough.
"H'm!" said Star, with a disdainful little sniff. "You'd better get
Daddy to steer your boat. _He_ doesn't mind fog. Are there many people
on board?" she added, with an air of interest.
"Heaps!" replied Bob, succinctly. Then, after a pause of meditative
chewing: "Like to go aboard? take ye--boat--Cap'n willin'."
"No, I don't want to go aboard, thank you!" said Star. "I don't like
people. But you might just row me round her once, Bob," she added.
"I think I should like _that_. But we must wait till Daddy comes,
of course.
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