" My father
dropped into his chair, and sat speechless, opening and shutting his
mouth like a fish.
"It is here in black and white," said my mother. I found the letter,
years after, in her kist. It was written, as were all the letters we
received from this Cornish venturer, in a woman's hand, small and
delicate, with upstrokes like spider's thread; written in French, too,
quite easy and careless. My mother held it close to the window.
"'Fifteen little wooden dolls,'" she repeated, "'jointed at the knees
and elbows.'"
"Well, I've gone to sea with all sorts, from Admiral Brueys upwards; but
fifteen little wooden dolls--jointed--at--the--knees!"
"I know the sort," I put in from the hearth, where my mother had set me
to watch the _bouillon_. "You can get as many as you like in the very
next street, and at two sols apiece. I will look to that part of the
cargo."
"You, for example? . . ."
"Yes, I; since you promised to take me on the very next voyage after I
was twelve."
"But that's impossible. This is a straight run, as they call it, and
not a mere matter of sinking the crop."
"And next time," I muttered bitterly, "we shall be at war with England
again, and then it will be the danger of privateers--always one excuse
or another!"
My mother sighed as she looked out of window towards the Isle de Batz.
I had been coaxing her half the morning, and she had promised me to say
nothing.
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