The Little Skipper: A Son of a Sailor

The birds were singing their best one spring morning, and that means a great deal, for they can sing down in the New Forest on a sunny morning in May, and there was quite a chorus of joy to welcome the Skipper and Dot as they went out through the iron gate at the bottom of the garden. The Skipper had on his last new suit of white duck, bound with blue, and his straw hat with the dark band bearing in gold letters "H.M.S. Flash"; a white plaited cord was round his waist, and a big pocket-knife dangled at his side. With his hat stuck back so as to show his curly brown hair, his blue and white collar over his shoulders, silk sailor-knot handkerchief, and his browned flushed face, he looked a thorough man-of-war's man. Dot was in white and blue too—a bonnie-looking little girl of seven, dressed as if for a yachting trip, and as full of excitement as her nine-year-old brother, to whom she looked up as someone very big and strong, who would protect her from all the perils and dangers to which they might be exposed. One must stop to say that "The Skipper," as his father always called him, was Bob, otherwise Robert Trevor; and Dot, so nick-named for reasons plain to see, was by rights Dorothy, and they had that morning been excused from lessons, because Captain Trevor had sent a message from Portsmouth that he was going to run over to lunch. Mrs. Trevor had said a few words to the Skipper before they started about taking care, to which he replied rather importantly, "Of course, Ma," and about keeping his fresh suit clean; but Mrs. Trevor said nothing to Dot, because, there was no need, for she was about the most prim, neat little creature that ever lived. And, now she paced along by her brother's side, carrying two sticks with iron hooks at their ends, with which she walked in her precise measured way, as if they were wands, while the Skipper carried the "Flash."