ing down the path with as little hurry as though all the world were waiting for him. He was short and fat and looked so much like a lesser edition of Sally that there could be no doubt of his being Jacky Shute.
“I’m just a-goin’ to weed those onions, Captain Saulsby,” he said hastily, to prevent the old sailor’s speaking first. “I stayed down by the wharf a little late, fishing, but there’s plenty of time yet. It’s not five o’clock.”
He scurried away across the garden, leaving the Captain sputtering with helpless indignation.
“That’s the kind of helper I have,” he exclaimed. “Comes when he likes, goes when he likes, does what he likes. His mother and Sally can’t do a thing with him. And stupid! Why, there’s nothing you can teach him, no matter how you try. He has fished and padied along this shore all his life, but he doesn’t know a thing about boats; he can’t tell the difference between a sloop and a knockabout. And what’s more,—” here the old man turned full upon Billy and dropped his voice as though he hated to speak so dreadful a thing aloud—“what’s more, he says he doesn’t want to know.”
