ely.

How different from that glittering hero, at sight of whom, not an
hour before, the Trojan dames at their lattices had stopped their
needlework to whisper! Down his nose and chin ran a pitiable flood;
his scanty locks, before so wiry and obstinate, lay close against his
ears; his gorgeous uniform, tarnished with slime, hung in folds, and
from each fold poured a separate cascade; the whole man had become
suddenly shrunken.

Speechless with rage, the little man clambered over the stern and
shook his fist at the wondering spectacles of Mr. Fogo.

"You shall repent this, sir! You shall--Jane, push the boat off at
once!"

But even the dignity of a fine exit was denied the Admiral. The boat
was by this time firmly aground, and he was forced to stand, forming
large pools upon the stern-board, while the grinning Caleb pushed her
off. And still Mr. Fogo looked mildly on, with his hands in the
wash-tub.

"Do you hear me, sir? You shall repent this!" raved the Admiral.

"Now, don't 'ee go upsettin' yourself again, 'cos wance es enough.
An' 't'ain't no good to be vexed wi' Maaster, 'cos he don't mind 'ee.
'Tes like Smoothey's weddin'--all o' one side. Next time, I hopes
you'll listen when you'm spoken to."

And with a chuckle, Caleb sent the boat spinning into deep water.
Scarce daring to look at their father, the Misses Buzza plunged their
oars into the brine, and the Admiral, still shaking his fist, was
borne slowly out of sight. At last even his language failed upon the
breeze.

Caleb quietly returned to his work.

"Thicky Adm'ral," he observed, contemplatively, after a silence of a
minute or so, "puts me in mind o' Humphrey Hambly's ducks, as is said
to look larger than they be."

He paused in the act of wringing a shirt, to look at Mr. Fogo.

The next instant the shirt was lying on the shingle, and Caleb had
sprung upon his master, taken him by the shoulders, and was shaking
him with might and main.

"Come, wake up! Do 'ee hear? What be glazin' at?"

"Eh? Dear me!" stammered Mr. Fogo, as well as he might for the
shaking. "What's all this?"

"Axin' your pardon, sir," explained Caleb, continuing the
treatment, "but 'tes all for your good, like ringin' a pig.
You'm a-woolgatherin'; wake up!"

Mr. Fogo came to himself, and sat down upon a log of timber to
rearrange his thoughts and his spectacles. Caleb stood over him and
sternly watched his recovery.

"You are quite right, Caleb: my thoughts