Loo Wing had it in hand, and Mr. Lawrence was adjusting its immensely
long tail, while the captain was paying out twine from a stick.
"Oh, uncle!" called Dwight in an agonized voice, "you know I was to
start it. Loo Wing promised I should."
"Well, well, who said you weren't? We're only making ready. But be
careful and not let it get tangled in the rigging," was quickly
returned.
"No, indeed!" cried the boy, trembling with excitement, as he received
from the smiling oriental the gaudy thing, and started for the taffrail
eager to see it off on its aerial journey.
But he was in too great a hurry, and despite warning cries from Captain
Hosmer, Loo Wing, and the Bengali boy, who was supposed to be polishing
the brass rod of the taffrail, he sent the kite up just in season for a
contrary puff of wind to catch its extended wings, and blow it squarely
into the topmost shrouds and ratlines of the mizzen-mast, where,
entangled in the network of ropes, it fluttered helplessly.
Poor Dwight was almost beyond speaking in his despair, when the little
Bengali, with a swift, beseeching look at his captain, sprang forward
and ran up the rope-ladder with the lithe, quick motion of a monkey.
"Oh, don't let him!" cried Faith, but her father only laughed.
"He's used to it, don't worry!" he said, and thus assured, they watched
the brown lad's dizzy climb until the kite was reached. Here, hanging
on by his toes, apparently, to the cross-bar, he bent over and loosened
the erratic flyer.
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