an apple, an' he burying his best friend, Mus'
Doughty----'

'Never mind for Mus' Doughty,' Puck interrupted. 'Tell us where you met
Sir Francis next.'

'Oh, ha! That was the year I was made a burgess of Rye--the same year
which King Philip sent his ships to take England without Frankie's
leave.'

'The Armada!' said Dan contentedly. 'I was hoping that would come.'

'_I_ knowed Frankie would never let 'em smell London smoke, but plenty
good men in Rye was two-three minded about the upshot. 'Twas the noise
of the gun-fire terrified us. The wind favoured it our way from off
behind the Isle of Wight. It made a mutter like, which growed and
growed, and by the end of a week women was shruckin' in the streets.
Then _they_ come sliddering past Fairlight in a great smoky pat
vambrished with red gun-fire, and our ships flying forth and ducking in
again. The smoke-pat sliddered over to the French shore, so I knowed
Frankie was edging the Spanishers toward they Dutch sands where he was
master. I says to my Aunt, "The smoke's thinning out. I lay Frankie's
just about scrapin' his hold for a few last rounds shot. 'Tis time for
me to go."

'"Never in them clothes," she says. "Do on the doublet I bought you to
be made burgess in, and don't you shame this day."

'So I mucked it on, and my chain, and my stiffed Dutch breeches and all.

'"I be comin', too," she says from her chamber, and forth she come
pavisanding like a peacock--stuff, ruff, stomacher and all. She was a
notable woman.'

'But how did you go? You haven't told us,' said Una.

'In my own ship--but half-share was my Aunt's. In the _Antony of Rye_ to
be sure; and not empty-handed. I'd been loadin' her for three days with
the pick of our yard. We was ballasted on cannon-shot of all three
sizes; and iron rods and straps for his carpenters; and a nice passel of
clean three-inch oak planking and hide breech-ropes for his cannon, and
gubs of good oakum, and bolts o' canvas, and all the sound rope in the
yard. What else could I ha' done? _I_ knowed what he'd need most after
a week's such work. I'm a shipbuilder, little maid.

'We'd a fair slant o' wind off Dungeness, and we crept on till it fell
light airs and puffed out. The Spanishers was all in a huddle over by
Calais, and our ships was strawed about mending 'emselves like dogs
lickin' bites. Now and then a Spanisher would fire from a low port, and
the ball 'ud troll across the flat swells, but both sides was finished