Chapter III: Captain Antonio’s Glass Eye

“Ha! dearie,” cried the little weird-looking man as Barclay approached, “so here we are. There’s nothing like punctuality. I’ve been all over the world, and I know that. We’ll sit down on the grass, and have a little talkee-talkee.”

There had been a little feeling of uneasiness in Barclay’s mind as he first approached Antonio, for that was the name he chose to be known by.

And, indeed, he looked far from canny. He was a man that few boys would have cared to venture near. He gave one the appearance of being old at one moment, and young the next; at one moment fierce as a panther, and next gentle as a lamb. His face was weather-beaten in the extreme, but hair and beard were as black as coal. Though small in stature, he gave one the idea of a man of gigantic strength. And so he was, as the story will show.

“Sit down, dearie, sit down. No, not there--a few yards farther from the old windmill, where we can see it.”

“No, I’m not afraid,” said the boy, “but last night I took you for----”

“For a ghost, I know. Ha, ha, ha--well then, take a look at the old mill. Do you like it?”

“Oh yes, Mr. ----”

“Antonio!”

“Mr. Antonio.”

“Captain Antonio.”

“Very well, sir. Of course I like the mill, because there is a great white owl up there, and she knows me, and I know her nest. Oh high, high up, sir; would you like to come up with me?”

“No, dearie, no. Not now.”

“You see that little wooden window two stories up?”

“That I do.”

“Well, I get out there, catch hold of one of the arms of the mill and shin up--oh, it is fine fun--and then I peep into the nest.”

“You’re a droll boy, and a daring.”

“Yes, sir, a droll boy, and a daring.”

“Now, Barclay Stuart, that mill is mine. I have bought it!”

“Bought the old windmill, sir?”

“That I have, dearie, and I am going to furnish it as a beautiful house, and live in it.”

Barclay looked puzzled for a minute, and began to think that after all this weird little man might be mad.

Antonio, who by the way was a Spaniard, seemed to read his thoughts.

“No, boy Barclay, I’m not a crazy man. I am far, far too wise. But I am a student, and I have some strange instruments to make, and strange studies to work out, and nothing will suit me but lonesomeness and quiet. And here I’ll have it. No boys nor men can ever come here now without my leave, for I’ve taken all the field round about it. I shall hear nothing but the boom of the waves as they thunder on the beach, and the scream of the wild birds of the ocean, and these, dearie, are music to me. They will soothe me by day while I study, and lull me into gentle sleep at night.”

It will be observed that Antonio talked good English. In fact, but for his complexion, hair, and eyes, no one would have taken him for a foreigner.

He was romantic too, though what his former life had been, or what adventures he had come through by land and at sea, Barclay could not even guess. He had yet to learn.

There was a pause in the conversation, and then suddenly Barclay burst out into a merry, happy laugh.

“How strange!” he said; “but how I should like to live in an old windmill!”

“Would you, dearie? Do you think your mammy would let you live with me and be my little companion? Oh, you should have plenty of freedom. I’m not quite a poor man, and one of these days, after I have finished my studies and sailed away to the pearl fisheries, I shall be very rich indeed. You love the sea?”

“O sir, I do, and I’ll be nothing but a sailor. Mother knows it. But dear mother is poor.”

The weird wee man turned and faced Barclay.

“The weekly wages I should give you, dearie, would help her to live in comfort.”

“Oh, that would be jolly!”

“And on fine days we would go far to sea in a sloop and fish. I should teach you to reef, and steer, and splice, and box the compass. I’d make a sailor of you before you went to sea.”

“That would be just too awfully jolly for anything,” said Barclay with enthusiasm.

“Our little cruises to sea would be little picnics, and we’d have plenty to eat, and nice drinks--oh, not wine.” The Spaniard shuddered slightly as he added, “I’ve seen terrible things happen at sea from wine-drinking. No, no, dearie, never touch wine or anything like that--it kills the body, it ruins the mind.”

“And, Captain Antonio, I suppose sometimes Maud, and Phœbe, and Teenie could go with us, and Davie Drake?”

“No,” replied Antonio, “not sometimes, but always, if they wish to. But who are Maud, and Phœbe, and Teenie, and Davie Drake, eh?”

“Oh, don’t you know; Maud is the parson’s daughter, Phœbe is my little sister, and--and--well, sir, Teenie is just a little barefooted fisher-girl, but she is so good and nice, and we often fish together for a whole day. Yes, I like--Teenie.”

“Well, she shall come, bare feet and all; but who is Davie Drake?”

And now Barclay’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

“Oh,” he cried, “he is a handsome boy, nearly a man, for he is sixteen. He is a farmer’s son, but he is going to sea. And he and I roam the woods together, and often the fishermen take us far away to sea. I like Teenie, but--I _love_ Davie.”

“Well, dearie, these are our passengers, five in all, and I’ll find the crew.”

Barclay for the life of him could not help crying “Hooray! what fun we’ll have!

“And,” he added, “I’m sure mother will let me live in the lighthouse with you.”

“Ay, ay, dearie, and you can run home for an hour or two whenever you choose.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you.”

Then after a pause--“I’ll run home now and tell mother and Phœbe everything, shall I?”

“Certainly,” was the reply.

* * * * *

In less than half-an-hour Barclay Stuart was back again at the old windmill. He came at the trot as usual, but this time he was waving his cap over his head.

“Hooray!” he shouted when within thirty yards of Antonio. “It is all right, sir--it is all right. Mother is going to let me be your companion. And won’t it be nice!”

Antonio was smoking a short meerschaum pipe, holding the bowl in his hand as if to warm the palm. Weird and strange-looking as he was, he seemed to fascinate the boy. But there was one thing about this Antonio that for many a long day Barclay couldn’t make out; to wit, the little man had a glass eye. Barclay had never even heard of such a thing, and the movements of this peculiar eye sometimes went far to frighten the lad. This wonderful eye had frightened more than Barclay; and while he stayed at the little inn, many believed that he was possessed of some kind of evil spirit, and all on account of this eye.

It was when sitting right in front of Antonio, face to face, that you noticed the strange cantrips of this wondrous glass eye. Although glass eyes are never useful, there is no reason why they should not be ornamental. But Antonio’s eye was neither. It was, to begin with, considerably larger than the real one, and seldom moved in unison with it. Indeed, as a rule, it seemed to be staring straight away ahead, as if trying to solve the infinite and gaze into futurity. This was not, however, the worst of this mysterious eye, for it was subject to sudden spasms or uncontrollable motions, that reminded one of the eye of a chameleon. For instance, quite regardless of what the natural eye was doing, it would sometimes take an uneasy kind of a squint down at the point of the nose, as if to make sure a fly hadn’t settled there, and remain thus on watch for a whole minute. Then suddenly with a jerk and a jump it would slowly revolve, till it fixed you as it were with a stony, sphinx-like stare. It appeared to look into you, to look you through and through, till you really found your nerves giving way, felt yourself under the spell of that weird, uncanny eye. No good trying to look away from it. If you did so, you would be haunted all the time with the feeling that the eye was still upon you, and, _nolens volens_, would be obliged to look round again and face it. Truly a strange and awful eye!

And a strange being was Antonio on the whole. In Scotland he would have been called a “warlock,” which is the male for a witch, you know.

But although I have tried to place him before your mind’s eye, I must not have you to despise him. There is good and bad in every one of us, and, in all probability, this story will prove that the good predominated in the heart of Antonio. But we shall see. I do but present him to you as I myself knew him.

When Barclay came trotting along towards the place where Antonio sat, and finally brought up alongside him, the little man took his pipe from his mouth and smiled.

“I’m glad,” he said, “right glad, dearie; and I believe you are good _here_ and _here_.”

He touched first his heart and then his head.

“Oh, I know,” he continued. “Been fifty years in this world, and know the good from the bad. Sit you down, dearie.”

Barclay sat down, and Antonio smoked some time in silence.

“Some day,” he said at length, “I’ll tell you bits from the story of my life. Oh, not all. It is too, too long. Meanwhile, dearie, we shall have nothing to do, for a year at least, but study and enjoy ourselves. Hullo! what is that?”

“That,” said Barclay, laughing, “is my cat. She follows me everywhere. She is with me night and day. Poor Muffie!”

A great tabby she-cat approached to where Barclay lay on the grass. She purred aloud and rubbed her bonnie face, which was vandyked with white, against the boy’s arm.

“Come to me, pussy; Antonio loves a cat.”

Muffie, for that was her name, walked up to the place where sat the droll little man. She walked up singing, tail in air. But when she looked up into Antonio’s face she behaved in a most extraordinary manner. For just then the glass eye gave a jerk and a jump, and appeared to fix poor pussy. She lifted up one leg, her hair rose, her tail became a brush, and with her head to one side, she gave vent to as lugubrious and melancholy a wail as surely ever emanated from the larynx and lungs of a domestic cat.

“Cauter--a--wa--ow--ow--ow!”

Why, the old wooden walls of the windmill re-echoed back the sound.

“Muffie!” cried Barclay, “I’m ashamed of you. Go and shake hands with the gentleman immediately.”

Down went pussie’s leg, down went the hair, and she approached Antonio, and in the most dignified and lady-like way gave him a paw.

Antonio smoothed her tenderly. He even lifted her up and kissed her shoulder, and in two minutes’ time Muffie was nestling on his knee, purring away like a turtle-dove.

Now, having kept cats since I was able to crawl, I know that they are very good judges of character.

Antonio himself seemed exceedingly well pleased at the friendliness exhibited to him by this queer pussy, and did not hesitate to tell Barclay so.

“And now, dearie,” said the little man, with a glance upwards at the windmill, “spring is coming, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, spring is nearly here; and oh, I do love the sweet spring-time, when the sun shines warm and soft every day, sir; when the grass grows green in the fields; when the leaves and buds are on the trees; when birds are building and singing so sweetly on the trees and hedges, and the larks--oh look, sir, yonder is one up there! Can you see it, sir? Can you see it?”

“My eyes are not so young as yours, dearie.”

“And then in spring, sir, the sea gets bluer, and I do think that the breakers that tumble inshore or break against the rocks are then as white as snow.”

“I think you are a poet, boy.”

“Oh, no, no, but I just love things, you know, and so does Davie Drake.”

“Now, Barclay, look up at that old windmill again. Do you think we’re going to live in it just as it is?”

“Oh, I don’t know, you know. I wouldn’t mind; and I’m sure Muff wouldn’t, if there are plenty of rats and mice.”

Antonio laughed.

“I’m going to make such a transformation in yonder old windmill, that will cause its late owner to sit up and say he is sorry he sold it.”