There sat old
Mazey, with his spectacles low on his nose, and his knotty old hands
blundering over the rigging of his model ship. There were Brutus
and Cassius digesting before the fire again, and snoring as if they
thoroughly enjoyed it. There was Lord Nelson on one wall, in flaming
watercolors; and there, on the other, was a portrait of Admiral
Bartram's last flagship, in full sail on a sea of slate, with a
salmon-colored sky to complete the illusion.
"What, they won't show you over the house--won't they?" said old Mazey.
"I will, then! That head house-maid's a sour one, my dear--if ever
there was a sour one yet. You're too young and good-looking to please
'em--that's what you are." He rose, took off his spectacles, and feebly
mended the fire. "She's as straight as a poplar," said old Mazey,
considering Magdalen's figure in drowsy soliloquy. "I say she's as
straight as a poplar, and his honor the admiral says so too! Come along,
my dear," he proceeded, addressing himself to Magdalen again. "I'll
teach you your Pints of the Compass first. When you know your Pints,
blow high, blow low, you'll find it plain sailing all over the house."
He led the way to the door--stopped, and suddenly bethinking himself
of his miniature ship, went back to put his model away in an empty
cupboard--led the way to the door again--stopped once more--remembered
that some of the rooms were chilly--and pottered about, swearing and
grumbling, and looking for his hat.
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