Behind Ken, some of the crew began hoisting the foresail to dry. He
heard the rhythmic squeak of the halliards through the sheaves, and the
scrape of the gaff going up.
"Go 'n lend 'em a hand, boy, since yer so gone on it," the jerseyed one
recommended quite understandingly. So Ken went and hauled at a rope, and
watched the great expanse of sodden gray canvas rise and shiver and
straighten into a dark square against the sky. He imagined himself one
of the crew of the _Celestine_, hoisting the foresail in a South
American port.
"I'd love to roll to Rio
Some day before I'm old..."
The sail rose steadily to the unsung chorus. Ken was quite happy.
He walked all the way home--it was a long walk--with his head full of
plans for a seafaring life, and his nostrils still filled with the
strange, fascinating, composite smell of the docks.
Felicia met him at the gate. She looked quite done for, he thought, and
she caught his sleeve.
"Where _have_ you been?" she said, with a queer little excited hitch in
her voice. "I've been almost wild, waiting for you. Mother's headache
is horribly worse; she's gone to bed. A letter came this morning, I
don't know what, but I think it has something to do with her being so
ill. She simply cries and cries--a frightening sort of crying--and says,
'I can't--can't!' and wants Father to tell her what to do."
They were in the hall by this time.
"Wants _Father_!" Ken said gravely.
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