Free In The Belly Of The Bloodhound by Louis A. Meyer Page B

on their minds, oh, yes, they do, and I know for sure there is more than one calico bonnet cocked in his direction—my female sense has noticed that Claire, the thirteen-year-old daughter of George Findley, the head hostler in the big stables, has for certain set her own sights on our unsuspecting Jim. We are not there many days before the clever Claire has taken his blue cap and embroidered[_ Morning Star_] on the headband in white thread for him.[_ Smart girl. For that you shall get all of Faber Shipping’s needlework contracts. Right now we need a new flag for our masthead. White background, two foot by three, with blue stitching. A fouled anchor, see, like the one I’ve drawn here…_]
    All in all, Jim Tanner does not lack for companionship. Nor do I.
    And so December passed.
    Jim’s first task was to paint the buoys, which he did in the Great Barn with Claire in attendance, of course, oohing and aahing over his skill with the brush. Then, after the paint had dried, we rigged and baited our traps and placed them out in the bay. It was with great joy and anticipation that we dropped them over the side, one by one. We vowed that we would not check them for three whole days, but when we stood on the shore and watched the buoys bouncing all jaunty out on the waves, well, we couldn’t wait and were out on the second day, pulling them up. We didn’t catch anything that day worth keeping, just some small crabs and trash fish, but it was wildly exciting, seeing the traps surge out of the cold water and wondering just what they might hold. Over the next few weeks, we moved the traps around till, at last, we did begin to draw some riches from the sea.
    Amy is my constant companion, but Randall always seems to be around, too, which I really don’t mind. Oh, he’s always looking for ways to get me into his bed, or at least to that place we were that time down on the banks of red roses when…Well, never mind. It was just a close thing, is all, but now it’s mostly banter, wordplay twixt the two of us, like,[_ So, Jacky, all I have to do is go over to England, put my sword through this Jaimy Fletcher, and then you’ll consent to be my mistress?
] And me back at him with[
Which you might not find such an easy thing to do, milord. Lieutenant Fletcher also has a sword, and a very fine one, too…Perhaps his blade would slide between your ribs, instead. Hmmm?_] All of which is all right, being just words. I mean, I know Randall would cheerfully seduce me and bring me to ruin, but he wouldn’t force me. He is a gentleman, after all, and I think, beneath all his rascally exterior, good at heart. I do notice, though, that in his fanciful future plans for me, it is always as mistress, never as wife. The scoundrel.
    Colonel and Mrs. Trevelyne have returned from the city and pronounce themselves delighted to see me again, which is big of them, considering the fact that I almost caused an international incident when last I was in their house. I think they put up with having me around mostly because I seem to bring some cheer to their children.
    Christmas approaches and we have a fine, deep snowfall, and horse-drawn sleighs are rigged and we bundle up and go out caroling and wassailing. It is great fun, careening about the countryside and pulling up in front of houses, their lighted windows buried up to their sills in the snow, us piling out, getting into a group somewhat resembling a chorus, and belting out “Good King Wenceslaus,” to the great hilarity of all. We are then invited in, to great house or small, and if the people within have a treat to give us, they give it. If not, then we give treats to them.
    Toasts are drunk—in the rich houses, great bowls of wine that have spices like cinnamon and clove and nutmeg in them, and little pieces of toast floating, a piece of which is gathered up with each cup, and hence, a toast is said and drunk—and eaten, if the chunk of toast ends up in your mouth. In the poorer houses, some