Stuart Little: Chapter 6

With a rolling gait he sauntered along toward Fifth Avenue, keeping a sharp lookout.

With a rolling gait he sauntered along toward Fifth Avenue, keeping a sharp lookout.

Stuart never paid any fare on buses, because he wasn’t big enough to carry an ordinary dime.

After that experience Stuart contented himself with the tiny coins which his father made for him out of tin foil.

“Live and learn,” muttered Stuart, tartly, putting his change purse back in his pocket.

Over the pond the west wind blew, and into the teeth of the west wind sailed the sloops and schooners, their rails well down, their wet decks gleaming.

He was an adventurous little fellow and loved the feel of the breeze in his face and the cry of the gulls overhead and the heave of the great swell under him.

He was an adventurous little fellow and loved the feel of the breeze in his face and the cry of the gulls overhead and the heave of the great swell under him.

She had a clipper bow, and on her foredeck was mounted a three-inch cannon.

“I’m looking for a berth in a good ship,” continued Stuart, “and I thought perhaps you might sign me on. I’m strong and I’m quick.”

The man looked sharply at him. He couldn’t help admiring the trim appearance and bold manner of this diminutive seafaring character.

The man looked sharply at him. He couldn’t help admiring the trim appearance and bold manner of this diminutive seafaring character.

“Well,” he said at length, pointing the prow of the Wasp out toward the center of the pond, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you. You see that big racing sloop out there?”

“That’s the Lillian B. Womrath,” said the man, “and I hate her with all my heart.”
“Then so do I,” cried Stuart, loyally.

“I hate her because she is always bumping into my boat,” continued the man, “and because her owner is a lazy boy who doesn’t understand sailing and who hardly knows a squall from a squid.”
“Or a jib from a jibe,” cried Stuart.

Nobody knows how I suffer, standing here on shore, helpless, watching the Wasp blunder along, when all she needs is a steady hand on her helm.

Nobody knows how I suffer, standing here on shore, helpless, watching the Wasp blunder along, when all she needs is a steady hand on her helm.

So, my young friend, I’ll let you sail the Wasp across the pond and back, and if you can beat that detestable sloop I’ll give you a regular job.

“One moment,” said the man. “Do you mind telling me how you propose to beat the other boat?”

“Not in my boat, thank you,” replied the man quickly. “I don’t want you capsizing in a squall.”

“Well, then,” said Stuart, “I’ll catch the sloop broad on, and rake her with fire from my forward gun.”

“Foul means!” said the man. “I want this to be a boat race, not a naval engagement.”

A puff of air bellied out the schooner’s headsails and she paid off and filled away on the port tack, heeling gracefully over to the breeze while Stuart twirled her wheel and braced himself against a deck cleat.

“Bon voyage, Stuart,” hollered his friend, “take care of yourself and bring the Wasp home safe.”

And he was so proud and happy, he let go of the wheel for a second and did a little dance on the sloping deck, never noticing how narrowly he escaped hitting a tramp steamer that was drifting in his path, with her engines disabled and her decks awash.