of the sea nobody gets killed, though some of the rats have
to go, even being eaten as the boy's hunger mounts.

Of course it does have a happy ending, but not many of us could have
done what he did, and certainly not many little chaps only four feet in
height. Makes a superb audiobook.

________________________________________________________________________
THE BOY TAR, BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID.

CHAPTER ONE.

MY BOY AUDIENCE.

My name is Philip Forster, and I am now an old man.

I reside in a quiet little village, that stands upon the sea-shore, at
the bottom of a very large bay--one of the largest in our island.

I have styled it a quiet village, and so it really is, though it boasts
of being a seaport. There is a little pier or jetty of chiselled
granite, alongside which you may usually observe a pair of sloops, about
the same number of schooners, and now and then a brig. Big ships cannot
come in. But you may always note a large number of boats, either hauled
up on the beach, or scudding about the bay, and from this, you may
conclude that the village derives its support rather from fishing than
commerce. Such in reality is the fact.

It is my native village--the place in which I was born, and where it is
my intention to die.

Notwithstanding this, my fellow-villagers know very little about me.
They only know me as "Captain Forster," or more specifically as "The
Captain," this _soubriquet_ being extended to me as the only person in
the place entitled to it.

Strictly speaking, I am not entitled to it. I have never been a captain
of soldiers, nor have I held that rank in the navy. I have only been
the master of a merchant vessel,--in other words, a "skipper." But the
villagers are courteous, and by their politeness I am styled "Captain."

They know that I live in a pretty cottage about half a mile from the
village, up shore; they know that I live alone--for my old housekeeper
can scarce be accounted as company; they see me each day pass through
the place with my telescope under my arm; they note that I walk out on
the pier, and sweep the offing with my glass, and then, perhaps, return
home again, or wander for an hour or two along the shore. Beyond these
facts, my fellow-villagers know but little of myself, my habits, or my
history.

They have a belief among them that I have been a great traveller. They
know that I have many books, and that I read much; and they have got it
into their heads