"Turlow said it was handsome done," I said hopefully. "So I heard." Father did not look pleased. But old Turlow himself, the senior carpenter, had shown me how to lap the narrow strips of board for the hull and nail down the deck. It was a patchwork affair, dark mahogany from the Indies jumbled with native oak and white pine, no larger than a small half-melon, discounting the thin doweling mast and handkerchief sail. "I built it!"įor weeks I'd scavenged scrap wood, chips, shavings from the floor of the woodshop down by the stables on our estate. My father's appearance in the nursery was a rare event to a lad of seven. "It's a ship, Father," I crowed, jumping up to greet him, glad to escape my tutor. He did not countenance disobedience, but on this morning, I had no notion I had disobeyed, eager to claim credit for the marvel he held in his hand. My father was a mild man, most often buried happily in his accounting books or off to his warehouse.
"James Benjamin Hookbridge! What is the meaning of this object?"
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