Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber by L. A. Meyer

completion of the alcove, the aforementioned black cat did not waste any time in quitting the greater classroom and planting herself on Cathy’s desk, a perch from which she does not move. When Master Edgar appeared at the doorway to pronounce that all this was silly stuff, she lifted an unsheathed claw-clustered paw and bared her teeth and hissed loudly in his direction. Thus, I realized that Cathy was not the only victim . . . and that maybe the cat would be a possible ally in this battle as well.
    For battle it certainly is. Young Mr. Polk, having realized, correctly, that he had lost the morning’s fight, redoubled his nastiness, thrashing about outside the alcove in true piratical fury.
“Die, dog! Here’s one in your filthy guts! Mercy? Never! Bow down, you scurvy knaves, bow down to Captain Blood!”
    Well, us knaves will see about
that
,
won’t we?
    â€œNow, Cathy, I must go out to set your brother to some more productive work than what he is now doing, but first, tell me the name of your kitty. Blackie? Of course . . . And your dolly? Amy? What a nice name. Did you know that’s the name of my very best friend? It’s true. Now, why don’t we sit Amy up here on your desk so that you might work a little more easily? There. See? She’s watching you do your letters, and she’s very proud of you. Later on, we’ll play some music and I’ll tell you a story, and maybe we’ll do some drawing. All right? Good.”
    â€œNow, Captain,” I say, confronting the little rotter. “Why don’t you put down your mighty swift sword and sit at your desk, such that we might work on your math and science?”
    â€œWon’t do it. Can’t make me, neither,
Governess,
” he pronounces firmly, point of sword on floor, hands on hilt, eyes daring me to say otherwise.
    I put my hands out in gentle supplication and say, “It is true that I am but a poor, pitiable governess, but yet sweet reason says that a bold sea captain must know his math and science. For when his scalawags bring in helpless hostages for ransom, he must know what price to place on each head and how to count that ransom when it is paid. And when his men bring chests of treasure before him to divide up the spoils according to the Laws of the Pirate Brotherhood, he will have to know how to do it. Right?”
    He looks dubious at that, but he does seem to brighten at the thought of helpless captives cringing before him. I go on.
    â€œAnd that is math, of course. And as for science, surely that same bold sea pirate captain must know celestial navigation—the sun and the stars and the use of the sextant, so he will know where his ship is on that wild and trackless ocean. Otherwise, your fine ship might be cast away and lost on some cruel rocks.”
    He thinks on that while I press on.
    â€œWhat is the name of your ship, by the way, Captain?” I just know he’s picked one out.
    â€œIt is named
The Raven,
” he replies. “And I can’t wait till I have you tied to the mast, pleading for mercy. You shall receive none.”
    Hmmm. Not bad.
I had expected something gory, but that has a bit of the poetic in it as well. The lad does have an imagination, that’s for sure
.
    â€œSo what do you say, Captain? Will you turn to your studies for the good of your ship and your loyal comrades, as a True Son of the Sea?”
    He thinks, then shakes his head. “No. I already know enough of that stuff already.”
    Hmmm 
. . .
 But will you take a bribe, then, Captain Blood?
    While he stands there, obstinate, I drag out a chair and climb up on it to intone, in my best theatrical manner . . .
    â€œI am Señor Hernando de Castro, governor of this fine port of Santa Maria de Josa. When I arose this morning, I was happy and my people were happy. But then I looked out over my ramparts and saw, lying below in the harbor,
The