one morning when the wind was from the west, stuart put on his sailor suit and his sailor hat, took his spyglass down from the shelf, and set out for a walk, full of the joy of life and the fear of dogs. with a rolling gait he sauntered along toward fifth avenue, keeping a sharp lookout.

whenever he spied a dog through his glass, stuart would hurry to the nearest doorman, climb his trouserleg, and hide in the tails of his uniform. and once, when no doorman was handy, he had to crawl into a yesterday’s paper and roll himself up in the second section till danger was past.

at the corner of fifth avenue there were several people waiting for the uptown bus, and stuart joined them. nobody noticed him, because he wasn’t tall enough to be noticed.

“i’m not tall enough to be noticed,” thought stuart, “yet i’m tall enough to want to go to seventy-second street.”

when the bus came into view, all the men waved their canes and brief cases at the driver, and stuart waved his spyglass. then, knowing that the step of the bus would be too high for him, stuart seized hold of the cuff of a gentleman’s pants and was swung aboard without any trouble or inconvenience whatever.

stuart never paid any fare on buses, because he wasn’t big enough to carry an ordinary dime. the only time he had ever attempted to carry a dime, he had rolled the coin along like a hoop while he raced along beside it; but it had got away from him on a hill and had been snatched up by an old woman with no teeth. after that experience stuart contented himself with the tiny coins which his father made for him out of tin foil. they were handsome little things, although rather hard to see without putting on your spectacles.

when the conductor came around to collect the fares, stuart fished in his purse and pulled out a coin no bigger than the eye of a grasshopper.

“what’s that you’re offering me?” asked the conductor.

“it’s one of my dimes,” said stuart.

“is it, now?” said the conductor. “well, i’d have a fine time explaining that to the bus company. why, you’re no bigger than a dime yourself.”

“yes i am,” replied stuart angrily. “i’m more than twice as big as a dime. a dime only comes up to here on me.” and stuart pointed to his hip. “furthermore,” he added, “i didn’t come on this bus to be insulted.”

“i beg pardon,” said the conductor. “you’ll have to forgive me, for i had no idea that in all the world there was such a small sailor.”

“live and learn,” muttered stuart, tartly, putting his change purse back in his pocket.

when the bus stopped at seventy-second

street, stuart jumped out and hurried across to the sailboat pond in central park. 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. the owners, boys and grown men, raced around the cement shores hoping to arrive at the other side in time to keep the boats from bumping. some of the toy boats were not as small as you might think, for when you got close to them you found that their mainmast was taller than a man’s head, and they were beautifully made, with everything shipshape and ready for sea. to stuart they seemed enormous, and he hoped he would be able to get aboard one of them and sail away to the far corners of the pond. (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.)

as he sat cross-legged on the wall that surrounds the pond, gazing out at the ships through his spyglass, stuart noticed one boat that seemed to him finer and prouder than any other. her name was wasp. she was a big, black schooner flying the american flag. she had a clipper bow, and on her foredeck was mounted a three-inch cannon. she’s the ship for me, thought stuart. and the next time she sailed in, he ran over to where she was being turned around.

“excuse me, sir,” said stuart to the man who was turning her, “but are you the owner of the schooner wasp?”

“i am,” replied the man, surprised to be addressed by a mouse in a sailor suit.

“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.”

“are you sober?” asked the owner of the wasp.

“i do my work,” said stuart, crisply.

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?”

“i do,” said stuart.

“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.

“or a luff from a leech,” bellowed the man.

“or a deck from a dock,” screamed stuart.

“or a mast from a mist,” yelled the man.

“but hold on, now, no more of this! i’ll tell you what we’ll do. the lillian b. womrath has always been able to beat the wasp sailing, but i believe that if my schooner were properly handled it would be a different story. 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.”

“aye, aye, sir!” said stuart, swinging himself aboard the schooner and taking his place at the wheel. “ready about!”

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

“i intend to crack on more sail,” said stuart.

“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.”

“well, then,” said stuart cheerfully, “i’ll sail the wasp straight and true, and let the lillian b. womrath go yawing all over the pond.”

“bravo!” cried the man, “and good luck go with you!” and so saying, he let go of the wasp’s prow. 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.

“by the by,” yelled the man, “you haven’t told me your name.”

“name is stuart little,” called stuart at the top of his lungs. “i’m the second son of frederick c. little, of this city.”

“bon voyage, stuart,” hollered his friend, “take care of yourself and bring the wasp home safe.”

“that i will,” shouted stuart. 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.