same fire built to burn the white man (Babs) is being utilised to roast potatoes for supper; only this is a mere detail.
And the play ends by the spirit of the wild woods bringing the maiden back (Babs again) to the camp fire in the forest, and – and by a supper of baked potatoes with salt.
All’s well that ends well. And shortly after the dénouement there may be seen, wending its way in the calm summer gloaming up the little footpath that leads through the green corn, the following procession. First, Bob solemnly carrying the fishing-rod; then Ransey Tansey with a string of red-finned fish in front of him, and Babs on his back, wrapped in the Indian’s blanket; and last, but not least, the Admiral himself, nodding his head not unlike a camel, and lifting his legs very high indeed, because the dew was beginning to fall.
Babs had gone soundly to sleep by the time they reached the farm, but she was lively enough a few minutes after this.
And Mrs Farrow made them stay to supper, every one of them, including even the Admiral, although he said “Tok – tok – tok” several times, out of politeness, perhaps when first invited in.
The kitchen at the farm was in reality a sitting-room, and a very jolly, cosy one it was; nor did the fire seem a bit out of place to-night.
It took Ransey quite a long time to tell all his adventures, and dilate upon the kindness of his visitors, especially rough but kindly Captain Weathereye.
It was almost dark before they got to the little cot at the foot of the hill that they called their home; and here a fresh surprise awaited them, for a light was shining through the little window, and through the half-open door as well.
Babs herself was the first, I believe, to notice this.
“O ’Ansey,” she cried, struggling with excitement on the boy’s back, “O ’Ansey, look! fazer (father) has tomed! Be twick, ’Ansey, be twick.”
And Ransey quickened his pace now, while Bob ran on in front.
“Wowff, wowff,” he barked, “wowff – wowff – wow!” But it was in a half-hysterical kind of way, as if there were a tear of joy mixed up with it, joy at the hope of seeing a kind old master again.
Even the crane felt it his bounden duty to indulge in an extra hop or two, and to shout, “Scray – scray – scray – ay – ay!”
It was the Admiral’s voice that caused honest Tom Tandy to get up from his chair, lay down his pipe, and hurry to the door.
“Hill – ll – o!” he shouted. “Here we all are, Ransey Tansey, Babs, and Bob, and all. Why, this is a merry meeting. Come, Babs. Hoist away, Ransey. Hee – hoy – ip! and there she is safely landed in harbour. So you missed your old father, little lass, did you? Bless it. But we’re all going on to-morrow, and the Merry Maiden has got a new coat o’ paint, and new furniture for the cuddy, and it’s no end of a jolly time we’ll all have.”
Yes, it was a merry meeting, and a right happy one. I only wish that both Miss Scragley and Captain Weathereye had seen it.
“Why,” the former would have said to herself, “this good fellow could surely never have been a slave to the bottle!”
Mr Tandy had never really been a constant imbiber of that soul-killing curse of our country – drink; but some years gone by, like many another old sailor, he was liable to slide into an occasional “bout,” as it is called, and it was with sorrow he thought of this now. But Miss Scragley and many others have yet to learn that it is often the best-hearted and the brightest that fall most easily into temptation.
As for Weathereye, had he been a witness of this little reunion, he too would have given his opinion about the sturdy old sailor.
“Why!” he would have cried frankly to Mr Tandy, (pronounced Tansey only by the children) “why, my good fellow, Miss Scragley, who is faddy and elderly, and myself, old fool that I am at the best, were considering what best we could do for your children. We were to do all kinds of pretty things. The boy was going to a school, the child to a home, and you – ha, ha, ha – you, with your bold face and your sturdy frame, a man of barely forty, were going to be sent to the house. Ha, ha, no wonder I laugh. But tip us your flipper, Tandy, you’re a man every inch – a man and a sailor.”
That is what Weathereye would have said had he seen Tandy sitting there now.
They are right in saying that those whom animals and children love are possessed of right good hearts of their own.
And here was this old sailor – the word “old” being simply a term of endearment, for none but the sickly are old at forty, and they’ve been old all the time – sitting erect in his chair, Babs on one knee, the great cat on the other; Ransey on the hearth looking smilingly up at father’s bronzed face, silver-sprinkled hair and beard; the Admiral standing on one leg behind the chair; and poor Bob asleep before the fire, with his chin reposing on his old master’s boot.
It was a pretty picture.
“Children,” says Tandy at last, “it is getting late, and – just kneel down. I think we’ll say a bit of a prayer to-night.”
Book One – Chapter Seven.
On Silent Highways
It was early next morning when Ransey Tansey ran off through the fields for a double allowance of milk.
“Double allowance to-day, Mrs Farrow,” he shouted. “Oh, yes, father’s come; and we’re goin’ on to-day. Isn’t it just too awfully jolly for anything?”
“Well, I’m sorry to lose you and Babs.”
“Back in a month, Mrs Farrow. It’ll soon pass, ye know. But I – I am a kind o’ sorry to leave you too, for ye’ve been so good to Babs and Bob and me.”
There was a tear in Ransey’s eye as he took the milk-can and prepared to depart.
“The Admiral can take care o’ his little self,” he said, “but there’s Murrams.”
“Yes, dear boy, and our nipper shall go over every morning, and put Murrams’s bowl of milk in through the broken pane.”
“Oh, now I’m happy, just downright happy.”
“Well, off you run. Mind never to forget to say your prayers.”
“No; and I’ll pray for Murrams, for the Admiral, for you, and all.”
He waved his hand now, and quickly disappeared.
The world wasn’t a very wide one just yet to these poor children, Ransey and Babs. It was chiefly made up of that little cottage which went by the uncanny name of Hangman’s Hall, and of the carrying barge or canal-boat yclept Ye Merry Maiden. But when at home, at the hut, they had all the sweet, green, flowery fields around them, the stream, and the wild woods. These formed the grand seminary in which Ransey studied nature, and moreover, studied it without knowing he was studying anything. To him every creature, whether clad in fur or in feather, was a friend. He knew all their little secrets, and they knew that he knew them. Not a bird that sang was there that he did not know by its eggs, its nest, or its notes; not a rabbit, hare, vole, or field-mouse that he could not have told you the life-story of. His was a —
“Knowledge never learned at schools,
Of
