Ballou's Monthly Magazine, Vol. XXVII, No. 1 — page 87: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

‘Old Hugh's Look-off. 91 youngster in the town can beat him in man- aging a boat, and I wouldn’t be afraid to trust him with the smack either.” I fushed up hotly with pride. There was no other compliment had quite so sweet a flavor as this praise of my seamanship. And while my mother was giving Joe a piece of cake [ ran for my thick jacket and my woollen cap. Mother kissed me as I went away, and there was a little reluctance veiled beneath her playful smile. “T let you go, Maury, because you have been so good to-night. I wont deny you these little trips, if they help you to bear better the life at the academy.” Joe and I hurried off down to the beach. The moon had already soared far up into the sky, and though a few inky scuds were drift- ing across her face, the whole scene was re- splendent with her lovely light. I glanced around admiringly, while Joe, whistling a queer sailor song he had learned, whose chorus came out every line or two, “O whishy, O whishy, O,” loosened the ropes and pushed off. It was a low, gently descending shore, sprinkled rather plentifully with little groups of cottages, with here and there a fine, hand- some estate, the country residence of some wealthy city gentleman, and twinkling lights began to glimmer out from the shore in re- sponse to the stars peeping forth timidly as if washed out by the more powerful flood of moonlight. We kept along the shore, and the sail being Set, the little craft, laying over on her side, sped along, the water gurgling away in white wreaths from her wake, which glimmered like beaded silver. It was so beautiful that I was thrilled with a strange sort of delight, so ex- quisite that it approached pain, and sent a mist to my eyes. What a world of beauty this is! I could never understand why the people in it do so much to mar its peace and loveliness. And this led my thoughts back to Reg Motley, and then I thought of the Nauti- lus, and looked over to the anchorage where she usually lay, with a trim little sail boat moored beside her. Before I knew Reg Motley personally, I believed he must be the happiest boy in the world, to own such a sail boat, as that was the very height of my ambitious hopes; but to have a yacht with her skipper and crew at her service seemed to me nothing short of a fairy prince. The Nautilus was there, her trim proportions mirrored in the silvered wave, but I saw that the sail boat was absent. I did not speak of it, for it was natural enough they should, some of them, be out, enjoying this jolly breeze and enchanting moonlight. I congratulated myself that I had luckily been of no need to Joe, who kept up his whistling, except when, now and then, he moved the tiller, and broke out into hoarse singing. Pretty soon we had to keep our eyes at home with the boat. It was a stiff breeze sure enough! She lay over till the water almost splasied into our laps, and went on her way like a wild thing. | “ It’s more in jerks and puffs down heie? observed Joe, as he put off a little further from the shore. “Come here and hold the tiller, Maury; I'll shorten a little.” I went over and took his seat, and it re- quired both hands to hold the tiller, such a sweep of water from our rapid motion worked against the rudder. “Tt’s a little rougher than you expected, isn’t it, Joe?” said I, presently, watching the yeasty billows come rolling one after anothcr toward us. Joe whistled that low, prolonged: whistle that says so much. “Sho! you don’t say you’re fagitneds Maury.” I laughed gayly as I answered, turning my face exultantly to the freshening breeze: “Frightened! I'd like to see the sea that can frighten me.” “ Mebbe, mebbe, youngster,” answered Joe, meditatively, while lse made another round of the sail rope. “You've got a brave spirit of your own for your years; but it’s no good to be over-boastful. The sea is mighty powerful when its wrath is aroused, and though it’s sense to have cheerful trust in good timber, and plenty of sea room, there be times when the stoutest man feels like a worm, and knows that his life is in the keeping of other hands than his own.” “Hark!” exclaimed I, suddenly, and sharply. _ Joe turned his head and listened. Only the rasping of the sail, and the roar of the wind, and the splash of the waves. “T was sure I heard a voice calling!” ex- claimed I, excitedly, and then in another moment we both heard it, gasping and sobbing as if from some one in mortal peril, but shrill and high. “ HELP—HELP—O HELP!” I almost lost my hold of the tiller as I interrupting him started up from my seate@ ppiichooks.com