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 were wandering.  Your treatment is a trifle rough, but honest.  Are those extraordinary people gone?”

“Iss, sir; here they were, but gone—­like Jemmy Rule’s larks.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Figger o’ speech, sir.  They be gone right enough—­Adm’ral Buzza in full fig, and a row o’ darters in jallishy buff.  I sent ’em ’bout their bus’ness.  Look ’ee here, sir:  ef you’ll promise to sit quiet and keep your wits at home, I’ll run down to town for a happord o’ tar.”

“Tar, Caleb?”

“Iss, sir, tar!” and with this Caleb turned on his heel and strode away across the shingle.  In a moment or two he had untied his boat from the little quay, and was pulling down towards Troy Town.

When he returned, it was with a huge board, a pot of tar, and a brush.  He looked anxiously about the beach, but Mr. Fogo was nowhere to be seen.  “Drownded hissel’,” was Caleb’s first thought, but his ear caught the sound of hammering up at the house.  He walked indoors to see that all was right.