It was apparent from the first that the place was the dwelling of a seafaring man, for painted yellow canvas covered the floor and marine prints hung about the wall. There was a picture of Farragut’s fleet in action, with the intrepid commander clinging to the rigging as he was supposed to have done during most of his battles. Then there was a picture of the burning of the frigate Golden Horn, a print of the Shannon bringing the Chesapeake into Halifax Harbor and a score of other decorations of a similar nature.
But the section of the wall above the chimneypiece was the most interesting to the boys, for over the shining stovepipe hung a great old-fashioned cutlass with its brass hand-guard and its black leather scabbard, and there too was Mitchell’s famous old “barker” sticking from its holster. Besides these, a dirk and several vicious-looking knives which the old salt had gathered in the “Inges” were made to serve a decorative purpose.
On the right hand side of the mantelpiece itself was a model of a full-rigged ship bearing in gilt letters the name “H.M.S. Bulwark.” The tiny little craft looked very majestic with all her sails set, and the boys were attracted to it immediately. And to balance this on the other side of the mantel was another craft of very strange appearance. In fact, it was of such a peculiar design that Jack was at a loss to know just what to make of it when he saw it. But the moment Ray caught sight of it he gave a loud cry of delight.
“Jack, Jack, look. Jove, there’s my model; my lifeboat, all safe and sound. Oh, Mr. Mitchell, where did you get it? By George, can it really be mine? How—where—?”
“’Ere, ’ere, what ’er ye jabberin’ habout,” exclaimed Mitchell, who was cramming an armful of wood into the stove preparatory to making coffee.
“Why that, that over there—the model—the little boat. Where did you get it? It’s mine, mine. I made it. Oh, Mr. Mitchell, how did you ever get hold of it?” cried the delighted youth as he rushed across the room and took the metal boat down from the pedestal Mitchell had made for it.
“That air punkin seed—that air tin kettle o’ a wessel; is that what ye’re a-meanin’? Why now, blime ’e, ye say hit’s yours? Well, mebby ’tis. Mebby ’tis, seein’ as ’ow hit ain’t mine ’ceptin’ by right o’ salvage, which I ain’t claimin’ hif ’tis yours. ’Ere’s a go fer ’e, ain’t hit?” said the old fisherman as he scratched his head in perplexity.
“Salvage? Do you mean you picked it up in the water?”
“Right an’ so, lad, right an’ so. ’Ere I war hout a-tendin’ of me traps one day when this ’ere thing comes a-bobbin’ an’ a skippin’ ower t’ water, lookin’ queerer ’n all git hout. Says I t’ myself, says I, ‘’Ere’s a strange craft, Mitchell, what ain’t got no owner aboard; why fer don’t ’e inwestigate hit.’ So I hup an’ salwages hit and blime me hif she ain’t t’ queerest looking wessel as ever I sot heyes on. Says I t’ myself, says I, ‘Now, hif this ain’t t’ most pecooler tin punkin seed as ever I clapped heyes hon, I’ll eat hit.’ An’ seein’ as ’ow she war s’ queer I tikes ’er hinto port an’ stows ’er hup longside o’ t’ hole Bulwark, I does.”
“Say, but that’s funny. Here I’ve been longing for this all Summer and it’s been right on the same island with me,” said Ray as he turned the model over and over.