she hid her face and cried bitterly.

Meanwhile, the big sailor had faced about and was walking back, picking
up his feet from the sand as if it were hot and burned him, while the
Captain turned his back on his son and began to move off toward the
fir-wood.

This gave the Skipper his opportunity too; he swung round to hide the
tears that had beaten him, and would come trickling down.

For the boy in his misery and despair felt that he could not--thanks to
his training--run to his father and beg for forgiveness, so that he
might have the presents the Captain had brought for him. It would be so
mean, he thought. But that cannon, _and_ the anchor, _and_ the ship's
cable. It seemed more than he could bear.

The sand was very soft, and the Skipper would not have known that his
father had come back, if Dot had not uttered a tiny sob, when the boy
started round, to face his father's eyes.

"Not sulky, are you, Bob?"

The boy shook his head. He dared not try to speak.

"It was not right of my boy, was it?"

"No, father," whispered the boy.

"Shake hands, then."

The Skipper caught the firm brown hand in both of his, and clung to it
tightly, and Dot began kissing her father with all her might. As soon
as he could extricate himself, the Captain smiled and wiped his wet
face, for Dot had been leaving little dewy tears all over it. Then he
hailed the big sailor, who was out of sight among the trees.

"Ay, ay, sir!" came in a cheery roar, and the next minute he came into
sight, trotting along at double quick march, and making the dry sand
fly like smoke.

"Those ship's stores will be wanted to-day," said the Captain sharply;
and he strode off into the fir-wood, with Dot in his arms, leaving his
son to follow.

The Skipper turned his back again, so that the sailor should not see
the trouble in his face, but he looked round in wonder, for there was a
strange scuffling noise, the low whistling of the old tune "Jack
Robinson," and there was the big sailor, with his arms swung across his
breast, and the parcels dangling on the wrong side, going through the
steps of the sailor's hornpipe, as if he were made of indiarubber; and
kicking up the dust more than ever.

[Illustration: "_There was the big sailor going through the steps of
the sailor's hornpipe._"]

"Hooroar! Master Bob," he whispered huskily. "It's all right agen. Come
on and let's get the ship, and I'll help you to hyste the tackle aboard
as soon as we get up