Matthew grunted; then squinted up at the graceful masts of the
Curlew.

"You know, Tommy," said he, "if it wasn't for my rheumatism I've
half a mind to come with the Doctor myself. There's something
about a boat standing ready to sail that always did make me feel
venturesome and travelish-like. What's that stuff in the cans
you're taking on?"

"This is treacle," I said--"twenty pounds of treacle."

"My Goodness," he sighed, turning away sadly. "That makes me
feel more like going with you than ever--But my rheumatism is
that bad I can't hardly--"

I didn't hear any more for Matthew had moved off, still mumbling,
into the crowd that stood about the wharf. The clock in Puddleby
Church struck noon and I turned back, feeling very busy and
important, to the task of loading.

But it wasn't very long before some one else came along and
interrupted my work. This was a huge, big, burly man with a red
beard and tattoo-marks all over his arms. He wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand, spat twice on to the river-wall and said,

"Boy, where's the skipper?"

"The SKIPPER!--Who do you mean?" I asked.