The Young Trawler | Page 2

a smart, active, and wiry frame. He was made to
look as large and solid as possible by means of the rough costume of a
fisherman, and there was a bold look in the blue eyes which told of a
strong will. What amused Joe Davidson most, however, was the
tremendous swagger in the creature's gait, and the imperturbable
gravity with which he smoked a cigar! The little fellow was so deeply
absorbed in thought as he passed the mate that he did not raise his eyes
from the ground. An irresistible impulse seized on Joe. He stooped, and
gently plucked the cigar from the boy's mouth.
Instantly the creature doubled his little fists, and, without taking the
trouble to look so high as his adversary's face, rushed at his legs, which
he began to kick and pommel furiously.
As the legs were cased in heavy sea-boots he failed to make any
impression on them, and, after a few moments of exhausting effort, he
stepped back so as to get a full look at his foe.
"What d'ee mean by that, Joe Davidson, you fathom of impudence?" he
demanded, with flushed face and flashing eyes.
"Only that I wants a light," answered the mate, pulling out his pipe, and
applying the cigar to it.
"Humph!" returned the boy, mollified, and at the same time tickled, by
the obvious pretence; "you might have axed leave first, I think."

"So I might. I ax parding now," returned Joe, handing back the cigar;
"good-day, Billy."
The little boy, gazed after the fisherman in speechless admiration, for
the cool quiet manner in which the thing had been done had, as he said,
taken the wind completely out of his sails, and prevented his usually
ready reply.
Replacing the cigar in the rose-bud, he went puffing along till he
reached the house of David Bright, which he entered.
"Your father's gone, Billy," said Mrs Bright. "Haste ye after him, else
you'll catch it. Oh! do give up smokin', dear boy. Good-bye. God keep
you, my darling."
She caught the little fellow in a hasty embrace.
"Hold on, mother, you'll bust me!" cried Billy, returning the embrace,
however, with affectionate vigour. "An' if I'm late, daddy will sail
without me. Let go!"
He shouted the last words as if the reference had been to the anchor of
the Evening Star. His mother laughed as she released him, and he ran
down to the quay with none of his late dignity remaining. He knew his
father's temper well, and was fearful of being left behind.
He was just in time. The little smack was almost under weigh as he
tumbled, rather than jumped, on board. Ere long she was out beyond
the breakers that marked the shoals, and running to the eastward under
a stiff breeze.
This was little Billy's first trip to sea in his father's fishing-smack, and
he went not as a passenger but as a "hand." It is probable that there
never sailed out of Yarmouth a lad who was prouder of his position
than little Billy of the Evening Star. He was rigged from top to toe in a
brand-new suit, of what we may style nautical garments. His thin little
body was made to appear of twice its natural bulk by a
broad-shouldered pilot-cloth coat, under which was a thick guernsey.

He was almost extinguished by a large yellow sou'-wester, and all but
swallowed up by a pair of sea-boots that reached to his hips. These
boots, indeed, seemed so capacious as to induce the belief that if he did
not take care the part of his body that still remained outside of them
might fall inside and disappear.
Altogether--what between pride of position, vanity in regard to the new
suit, glee at being fairly at sea and doing for himself, and a certain
humorous perception that he was ridiculously small--little Billy
presented a very remarkable appearance as he stood that day on the
deck of his father's vessel, with his little legs straddling wide apart,
after the fashion of nautical men, and his hands thrust deep into the
pockets of his sea-going coat.
For some time he was so engrossed with the novelty of his situation,
and the roll of the crested waves, that his eyes did not rise much higher
than the legs of his comparatively gigantic associates; but when
curiosity at last prompted him to scan their faces, great was his surprise
to observe among them Joe Davidson, the young man who had plucked
the cigar from his lips in Yarmouth.
"What! are you one o' the hands, Joe?" he asked, going towards the man
with an abortive attempt to walk steadily on the pitching deck.
"Ay, lad, I'm your father's mate," replied Joe. "But surely you are not
goin' as