It is really regrettable, Madden, that you are leaving
England before you tour Cornwall. A wonderful little island, England. A
land to live for--or to die for, God willing."
Caradoc stared toward the coast, frowning, with the old familiar look of
pain coming into his eyes. His hearer and his extemporaneous lecture
plainly slipped out of his mind.
"You've been along here before," suggested Madden with a hope of
diverting Smith's mind.
"Oh, yes," replied the Englishman gloomily.
"Sailor, perhaps?"
"Yes."
"Not another dry dock, I trust," laughed Madden, turning to work.
"No."
"Windjammer?"
"Yes."
Leonard nodded at his painting. "Fishing smack, I'll bet."
The cross-questioning was interrupted by a raucous voice overhead, and
both boys looked up to see the mate's thick torso hanging over the rail.
He was shaking his fist at the tall Englishman.
"W'ot you think we brought you along for?" he bawled savagely. "To give
lectures? If you don't paint and quit blowin', you win' bag, I'll ship
you at Penzance!"
Caradoc's face went white, leaving threadlike purple veins showing on
nose and cheeks. "I'm willing to do my duty," he said with a quiver in
his tone. He glanced at his empty paint bucket. "If I'm to work, bring
me paint--I'm out!"
Caradoc seemed to be able to make the mate madder and do it quicker than
anyone else.
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