CHAPTER V.

A MOUNTAIN WAVE COMES SWELLING OVER THE SANDS.

"His form was of the manliest beauty,
    His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty,
    But now he's gone aloft."—DIBDIN.

"When I heard," said Dan Brundell, "that there was a brig ashore on the tail of the Gorton Sands, I had no more notion that it was Bob's Polly Ann than I have o' what the weather will be this day month. I'd been down with some oars Gorton ways, and I met old Ashley while returning.

"Would I volunteer, he said, to go in the Fairy; one of his sons was from home, and we might, he said, pick up a bit o' salvage, as well as flotsom.

"'She's hard and fast now,' he says, 'but is bound to break up.'

"So I thought too, when I embarked, for it was blowing 56-pounders, and a heavy sea tearing in from the east. It was the heavy, tearing sea that did it. 'Fore we had got well abreast o' the Gorton Tail, we could see in the bright moonlight the dark hull o' the brig, both masts snapped short off, lifting and falling in the jaws of the foaming seas like a creature in agony.

"'She can't stand it for half-an-hour," said Ashley; 'and what's more, Dan, we can't get anyw'eres near her. There'll be widows a-weeping to-morrow mornin', mate, at old Yarmouth docks.'

"But what we saw next astonished Ashley himself, though, man and boy, he'd been on the water all his life. It was a mountain sea coming swelling over the sands and swallowing everything up before it, and lo! sir, in a minute more, there was the dark hull of that brig being borne bodily toward us.'

"What happened after this I can't well describe, bein' as how I'm slow o' speech like, but in half-an-hour all the beach for a mile and more, was strewn wi' wreck, and many a body was washed in on the surf and left dead, or for dead, on the sands. But lawk! sir, you could have knocked me down with a sledge-hammer when, on turning over one of these bodies, I found it was poor Bob yonder, and no one else."

"He had a small deed-box alongside him, with a piece o' manilla round it. He had come ashore with this. I didn't doubt that, even then.

"At first I thought him dead. But he soon opened his eyes and spoke.

"'Haul me high and dry,' he said, 'high and dry, dear brother, for I can't move. It isn't drowned I am at all. It's a stroke, Dan; a stroke."

"This was a sad sort of a meeting 'twixt two brothers that had always loved each other same as Bob and me has, and for the life of me I couldn't have spoken then, no, never a word. I tried to swallow back my grief and tears, as it were, and lifted the lad right up in my arms, and carried him away beyond the reach o' the raging surf, and there I laid him down. I knelt beside him there in the pale moonlight. I cared for nothing nor nobody just then, but only Bob. I noticed though, that his eyes and head were turned wistful-like towards the boiling sea.

"'Dan,' he said, 'bring the box and put it close by me. Thanks, dear Dan; you were always good. Now go at once, Dan, and look for Captain Bure and his little boy.' It wasn't long either 'fore I found 'em. The poor little tot of a chap with long, silken hair, and bonnie black eyes, was weeping and wailing over his father.

"'Oh, sailor man,' he said to me, 'poor pa! poor pa! He's deaded! he's deaded!'

"'No, no, my little man,' I answered. 'Your father isn't dead.' So I hurried away and got the gentlemen into the cave. Gentle and simple, dead and maimed and living, they all lay there, with the cold moonbeams glinting in through the doorway, and struggling like wi' the yellow rays of the whale oil lamp.

"In two hours' time the doctor had come, and we—the living ones—began to gain hope and courage.

"The good man did all he could for everybody, and next day Captain Bure, with his little boy Tom—yes, Tom that has just gone to turn in—and poor Bob, were fetched in the boat waggon to our cottage here. The captain was soon able to get about, but Bob lay quiet enough, and never yet has he lifted hand or foot.

"But it wasn't a stroke, the doctor said, not of the 'pplexy, anyhow. 'More likely,' he said, 'it's been a stroke with a floating spar, and the neck is injured right smart.'

"Well, sir, it would have done your heart good to have seen how kind and attentive the captain was to Bob. 'He's been my nurse many's the time,' he said, 'and now, Mr. Dan, it's my turn.'

"But all the time I could see as plain's I see the moon shining on the curtains yonder, that the poor captain himself would soon be under the daisies and grass."

"One morning, says the gentleman to me smiling-like, 'I'm going to charter your boat-waggon to-day, Dan, if you'll come with me to Yarmouth, and young Tom'll stop with Bob till we return.'

"It was a lovely day, sir, with the birds all singing as if their hearts were swelling with the joy that was in them, and their feelings had to find vent somewhere in song, or in lofty flight. So we drove round by the big hill on the broad.

"I could see the captain meant to make a day of it, and so I drove slow.

"When I came near the hall and the pretty grounds and the swaying trees and rookeries and things, he told me to drive slower still, that he might enjoy every thing, and all the beauties of nature around him. But la! sir, I was surprised to see him so white and pale like. At last he said, 'Drive on now, Dan as fast ye like.' He was still white and ghastly-like, though, so I jumped down at a pub and got a tot of rum. I took a sip myself, more for fashion sake like, and made him swallow the rest.

"He was better all day after that; but I remember he laughed once or twice as he told me his feet were so cold. 'Seems funny,' he said, 'on so fine a day.'

"I didn't answer much. I knew well there wasn't a deal of fun in it.

"We had that deed-box with us, and we went into the bank. We left the box there, and had a long talk with the banker. Leastways, Captain Bure had.

"Then he turned to me, and laughed again.

"'My good Dan,' he said, 'if the cold of my feet gets higher up and goes round the heart——'

"The tears sprang to my silly eyes, sir.

"'Oh, sir!' I cried, 'don't talk so, it grieves me to hear it.'

"'There are times,' he said, 'when men must talk straight. Now, I've known your brother so long, Dan, and heard so much about you, that I want you to be a father to little Tom—if——'

"'I know, sir!' I cried. 'Don't repeat it. My wife and I have neither chick nor child savin' little Ruth. We'll see to Tom.'

"He clasped my hand.

"'Mr. Mackay,' he said, 'has full instructions, and enough money of mine to give Tom bite and sup, and a good education. Come, Dan, and we'll buy some comforts for poor Bob.'

* * * * *

"I am not sure," continued Dan, after a pause, "if that isn't all the story."

"Not quite," said Mr. Merryweather. "There is the death of Captain Bure, you know."

"Ah, sir, we won't speak of that. It happened soon; and he lies in a quiet corner of the great churchyard at Yarmouth. Little Tom and I go there one Sunday every month to put flowers upon the grave."

The honest boat-builder ceased talking and lit his pipe.

"Dear droll little Tom," he added a moment after, "he does say such queer things. Maybe other folks wouldn't notice 'em, but I do. 'It's only pa's body that lies here, you know, daddy,' he said to me two Sundays ago, 'his soul has gone up to the clouds to live, hasn't it?'

"I didn't speak for a minute, I was thinkin' o' the words of that song, sir—

'For though his body's under hatches,
    His soul has gone aloft.'

"The little chap sat down beside the grave and arranged the flowers, then smoothed all the long grass out straight as if it had been hair. He took my hand after that, and we walked quietly and silently away.

"'Pa,' he said afterwards, 'is only afraid I'll be drowned if I go to sea. But I think he'll be pleased when I am a sailor all the same.'

"No, Tom never looks upon his father as really dead, you know.

"Mr. Curtiss is our curate, and he is Tom's tutor, though Bob there teaches him a lot, and has pretty nearly made a sailor of him already. And I'm sure I cannot blame poor Bob——for——"

Dan paused now, and held up his forefinger warningly, while his eyes rested on his brother's face. He took the pipe away and shifted the light, for the invalid was fast asleep. Then he went silently away on tip-toe, and Mr. Merryweather followed him, with just one good-night glance at the sleeping form of his old shipmate, Bob.

CHAPTER VI.

SUMMER MORNING ON A NORFOLK BROAD.

"The coot was swimming in the reedy pond,
    Beside the water-hen so soon affrighted;
And in the weedy moat the heron, fond
    Of solitude, alighted.

"The moping heron, motionless and stiff,
    That on a stone as silently and stilly
Stood, an apparent sentinel, as if
    To guard the water lily."—TOM HOOD.

Our little hero, Tom, was early astir next morning. In fact he was up with the lark. High up, too; for his first act, after sluicing his sleepy face in a bucket of water, and drying off with a rough brown towel, was to swarm up into the crow's nest and have a look around.

The morning was bright and clear, and the beach was swarming with country people; but there was no sign of the government vessel or of the yawl she had gone in pursuit of. Not content with scanning the horizon from the crow's nest, Tom must needs climb up as high as the cross-trees, and take observations from that coign of vantage.

The wind had gone down to the gentlest breeze, but a heavy sea still rolled over the sands, and broke in white surging waves upon the beach. From where he stood, or rather hung, Tom could easily hear the boom or roar of each mountain breaker, keeping up a kind of deep bass to the screaming of the sea birds that floated near him.

The sun had only just risen, and was flooding the ocean with a strange yellow light, while bars of silvery and crimson clouds lay parallel with the horizon, even far away to the west.

It was indeed a lovely morning, one to make a person feel as light and happy as the birds that sang in every bush or thicket. But nevertheless a wave of sadness passed over the boy's heart as he thought of the drowned men who lay so quiet and still upon the sands out yonder, and of their friends and relations who were left to mourn.

It somehow seemed to Tom unnatural that so much of sorrow should mingle with the gladsomeness of this sunny summer's day. He had yet to learn that all the world and all our lives are made up of light and shade, and that even in the midst of life we are in death.

But as he walked homeward now over the rustic bridge, he checked the song that rose to his lips. He would not sing, with dead men lying unburied on the sands of Yare.

* * * * *

It seemed to Tom that this morning would take a long, long time to pass by. He got his books, and went with Meg to the little summer-house by the lake, and tried hard to settle down to the tasks Mr. Curtiss, his kindly tutor, had set him to perform. But all in vain; so he left the books on the garden seat, putting a stone over them lest a spiteful puff of wind might blow the leaves about. Then "Come on, Meg," he cried, "we'll go for a row."

"Wouff—ff," barked Meg, and away they went.

For a boy of his years Tom was wonderfully well developed, and when he stripped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, the white forearm he showed seemed as hard and round as the backstay of a gun-brig.

Meg sat forward in the bows of the little boat, with her forelegs leaning over the gunwale that she might bark at the fish and the birds, and make brave pretence that she meant to jump over and catch them.

By-and-by Tom came to a winding worm of a stream or lead that he had some difficulty in navigating his craft through, but he managed at last, and soon found himself afloat in one of the most beautiful of all the Norfolk broads.

The lake was a deep one, and not only plentifully encircled with tall, reedy bulrushes, but in many places lined with "wild woods thickening green," and banks whereon grew the most lovely of wild flowers. Tom paused often that he might inhale the early-morning perfume of these wildlings of nature, and watch the movements of the numerous birds that had their homes on this peaceful broad.

And not a bird is there among them all that seems very much afraid of the boy in his little boat or of Meg either. Perhaps the birds know Tom, for wild creatures are very observant, and know too that neither he nor that gentle-faced collie will do them any harm. Indeed Meg has dropped her bonnie head upon her paws, and appears to have gone fast asleep.

The sky above is very blue, albeit a fleece-white cloud is floating here and there, and the waters of this still lake are very dark, yet clear. How richly, softly green is the foliage on yon cloudland of trees, how tender the tints of verdure on the rustling, whispering reeds. Look at the pink on that flowering rush, to which a reed-warbler is clinging as it sings its low, sweet lilt. Only for a few moments does it cling there, however. It is far too busy to spend all the morning in song, for the pretty thing has a grass hammock of a nest swung between some reeds close to the bank. No boy in the neighbourhood knows where that nest is save Tom, and he won't touch it, but he marvels while he admires the freak of nature that has almost surrounded the birdie's hammock with the bells of the pink convolvulus.

Hark! there is a nightingale trilling its heaven-taught song in a thicket not many yards away. How sharp and clear is every note, and yet how pathetic and mournful are the lower ones! But presently the bird ceases to sing, for he too has a mate sitting close at the foot of a bush in a nest so artfully disguised as hardly to be discerned, and this little mate needs her breakfast of succulent slugs and beetles.

"Cheeky—cheeky—chee—chee—chee," sings the sedge bird, who has far too much to say, and instead of listening reverently to the song of the nightingale, the thrush, or the blackbird, must needs put his oar in and throw harmony quite out of joint. But there are many other birds that do the same, for each and all sing for their own mates only.

Very quietly now glides Tom's little boat; very still the boy sits too, fascinated as it would seem by the beauty of his surroundings, and as if afraid to disturb the privacy of the lovely feathered creatures whose home he has invaded.

He almost holds his breath as a pair of dark-plumaged coots with white brows go quietly sailing past ahead of him, gazing at him with their expressive beads of eyes, but ready to start off at the slightest movement on his part. A little way farther on are a family of charming water-hens, that go paddling and nodding on across the deep dark water, so intent on their own business that hardly do they notice the slowly-gliding boat.

But Meg lifts her head to look about her and take her bearings, and off scurry the coots; the water-hens too take alarm, and in a moment more all have sought the shelter of the whispering reeds.

More birds take the alarm here and there among the sedges; and in the water there is plashing and whirring and diving, while, uttering a sound that is partly a croak and partly a cry, a great heron, that had previously been standing as still as a statue on the edge of a bank, goes sailing away high in air.

Tom lies on his oars now, and in a few minutes peace and repose is once more restored to the reed-bound brood.

"Meg," says Tom quietly, "you just go to sleep there please, or at least pretend to."

Meg shuts one eye and gives one little wag of her tail, and the boat forges slowly ahead. Tom pulls more in towards the edge now, where the flat round leaves of the water lilies are floating, with flowers snow-white or brilliant yellow just appearing, where the flowering ash blooms prettily, and the orange iris shows against the fresh green of young reeds.

Though it is very early in the morning, the sun is gaining power, and busy among the gnats and midges that dance over the water and over the whispering reeds, filling the air with their dreamy humming, flit and fly the swallows and martins. They even touch the surface at times, long enough to drink or have a little bath, then off and away again, like chips of lightning with the sunlight on their wings.

Tom lands at last among soft green moss, among many a budding alder, many a silvery drooping, dwarf birch-tree, and many a feathery fern. He warns Meg that she is not to follow, but only lie and watch, while he goes wading over the marsh. Oh, what beauty and loveliness on every side! Oh, what a wealth of wild flowers! Yonder is a bush of yellow furze, and a rose-linnet's nest is there. The cosy wee mother sits still on the eggs even when Tom peeps in under her scented golden roof-tree, but the cock-bird that erst sang so sweetly on that bush of sallow changes his notes to a peevish cry of alarm.

Not a nest of any kind of bird that Tom does not know where to seek and find; the titlark's and skylark's near tussocks; the yellow bunting's in the low, close thorn or bank; the sedge-bird's, with its warm wee eggs and even nests of snipe, and coot, and teal—all are known to him, but all are sacred.

The boy spends fully an hour roaming around here; but, getting very hungry, he begins to retrace his steps at last, yet not before he has culled a bouquet of the choicest wild flowers, the flowers that uncle Bob loves best.

In his way back to the boat Tom goes round by a patch of woodland, a closely-planted thicket of pines, the tasselled larch, the dark-nodding fir, and the sombre spruce, each branch of the latter bedecked with points of tenderest green. He has to pass a reedy pond, when, as he stoops to gather some pink silenes, he startles a wild duck that with outstretched wings goes whirring over the water; there is a wagtail nodding to him on the opposite bank. High in the air the skylark sings, from bushes near come the babbling notes of sedgelings, and soaring over the marsh he can just distinguish a mire-snipe, its intermittent cries sounding like bleating of a goat. He crosses a green bog that moves and heaves under his footsteps, as if ocean waves were all beneath. And now he enters the thicket, and a different kind of bird-song falls on his listening ear—the mellow notes of the blackbird, the sweet wild lilt of the chaffinch, the mocking voice of the mavis, and the low mournful love-croodle of the cushat.

Tom walks through this woodland as solemnly as if he were in church. He is almost awed by all the beauty and loveliness he sees around him, and actually sighs as he stands once more in the open, with the waters of the reedy broad spread out before him like a mirror, and only the blue unfathomable sky above. He reaches the boat at last.

The boat is there right enough, the painter tied to the alder bush just as he left it, but Meg has gone. While he is wondering what could have induced her to leave her post, he hears her glad bark in the distance, and next minute she comes bounding over the marsh towards him.

But not alone, for behind her, laden with a huge and sadly-disorganised bunch or wisp of wild flowers, comes a little blue-eyed lassie. So large are her eyes, so small her rosebud of a mouth, that, with her hair all afloat behind her as she runs, she might easily be mistaken for the good fairy of this flowery marsh.

"Oh, Tom," she cries, "I'm so glad you've come'd!"

"But, dear me, Bertha, what are you doing here so early?"

One of Bertha's legs is clothed in a pure white woollen stocking, the foot encased in a buckled shoe; the other leg, which, laughing roguishly, she extends for Tom's inspection, is clad in black, slimy mud up to the knee, and the shoe is gone.

"Such fun," she says, panting a little. "You know, Tom, I'se been nearly dwownded. And I screamed, and Meg come running; but I'se lost my shoe, and perhaps ma will punish me—perhaps not, 'cause she loves Bertha—sometimes."

"But I'm lost," she added, "and where my home is I don't know."

"Well, Bertha," said Tom, looking very old and serious, "I love you always, you know. And when I grow a big rich man, with a cocked-hat and a sword, I'll perhaps marry you—if you are good, that is."

Bertha shook her yellow hair rebelliously.

"Oh, I can't be always good," she said. "It wouldn't be fun at all, Tom."

"Well, jump in, Bertha, and Meg and I will take you right to your own grounds."

Bertha was happy now, and soon began to sing a little song to herself and Meg.

With the thoughts of the shipwreck on her mind, somehow the child's singing jarred on the boy's feelings.

"Bertha," he said, "there was an awful thing happened last night! A brig was knocked to pieces on the Gorton Sands, and the dead sailors are all lying on the beach."

"Well, silly Tom," cried Bertha, laughing, "it isn't my fault."

Tom didn't know what to reply to this, and Bertha commenced to sing again.

But the boy and this little light-minded maiden were very old friends indeed. For Tom was a favourite with Lady Colmore, and was frequently invited to the Hall, when her ladyship was there, which she usually was during the summer and autumn, spending most of the winter and spring in the south of England, where her son was at college.

Tom was a gentlemanly boy, and Mr. Curtiss had informed Lady Colmore that there was some strange mystery about his birth, which, however, even he was not altogether acquainted with, though it was in some way connected with a Jamaica marriage. But this was quite enough. A boy of manly bearing, and big dark eyes, evidently of gentle birth, heir, when of age—as she had heard—to a large fortune, and with a mystery, was a very interesting character indeed, despite the additional surmise that his mother might have been a Creole or half-caste.

Bertha sprang lightly on shore when the boat was rowed alongside the bank.

"Good-bye, Tom," she cried. "After breakfast me and Brown'll bring the strawberries to your Uncle Bob, and then we can all go and see the rows upon rows of dead men. Such fun! Good-bye."

Next minute Bertha, with her yellow hair and shoeless foot, had disappeared, and Tom, after a moment or two of thoughtfulness, made all haste back home.

In half-an-hour, or a little over, he had once more moored his boat. Then he hurried away aloft again to scan the horizon.

Yes, yonder was the sloop—the something naughty in disguise—she was tacking slowly up to windward, still about seven or eight miles off, and there was no yawl near her, so she had not won the race.

This was news to carry to Captain Merryweather, anyhow.

He found that bluff, good-natured sailor walking about on the gravel path smoking, early though it still was.

"Oh," said Tom, saluting him military fashion, "I'm so sorry to bring you bad news, sir."

"Bad news, youngster? What is it?"

"Well, your sloop, sir—if she be a sloop, sir—is in sight, and she hasn't caught the yawl!"

"Ah, never mind, Tom! Better luck next."

"Yes, sir," said Tom. "I hadn't thought of that, sir."

Ruth now came blushing and smiling to call the captain to breakfast, and he gallantly took her hand and led her back to the cottage.

They breakfasted in Uncle Bob's wing, so that he might join in the conversation.

And breakfast was not long over when Bertha and her maid Brown came in with that basket of beautiful strawberries for Uncle Bob.

"What a charming little lady!" said Merryweather, who had been looking at Bertha. Like most sailors, he was fond of children. "Come hither, dear, and talk to me."

Bertha seemed used to obey, for she came at once, and stood demurely by his side. This pensiveness of hers, however, did not last long. She and the captain were soon the best of friends, and he on his part hardly knew which to admire most, her beauty or her candour.

"Do you know," he said laughing, "you are very pretty, Bertha?"

"Oh, yes!" she answered, her head a little on one side, "I know well enough, but mamma says people are not to tell me so."

"Why, dear?"

"Cause it spoils me, of course."

"Ma doesn't spoil me. No! Everybody else spoils me, though."

Then she noticed the scar on Merryweather's brow, and touched it tenderly with her little forefinger.

"Have you been fighting with the cat?" she asked innocently.

"Yes, dear; a big disagreeable old cat."

Seeing her gazing admiringly at the big bunch of seals that dangled from his fob, he pulled out his gold watch and placed the whole in her lap.

"Is all this yours?" she asked wonderingly.

"Yes, petite."

"Your own own yours?"

"Yes, my own own."

"And your mamma doesn't take them away, and say, 'By-and-by, dear, when you're grown up'?"

"No, my mamma lets me do as I like."

"How lovely!" She was examining the seals.

"They shall be all yours," said the captain, "all your own own yours, if you marry me."

"All my own own mine?" Her eyes were bigger now than ever.

"Yes, dear."

"You see," she said thoughtfully, "I'se goin' to marry Tom; and you is not so pretty as Tom."

"No, he certainly has the advantage of me in good looks; but then I have so many nice things that Tom hasn't, you know."

"Yes, and you spoil me. Tom doesn't."

"I daresay," she added after a pause, "I mustn't marry both."

"Oh, no! that wouldn't be allowed in this country; you must decide to have me or Tom."

She looked at Tom, and she looked at the jewels.

"I think," she said at last, "I must marry you, and poor Tom can marry Brown."

"Hurrah!" cried Merryweather. "What a perfect little woman it is! Tom, you're jilted. Now, Bertha, get on my back, and we'll go off out into the sunshine and spend our honeymoon."

And away they went galloping and rollicking round the garden paths, and it was evident, from the shouts of merry laughter, that Bertha thought very little of her discarded lover.

"Now," she cried at last, "let us all go and see the lovely dead men, all in rows and rows. Hoor-ay!"

CHAPTER VII.

THE LAUNCH OF THE "QUEEN OF THE BROADS."

The men saved from the wreck of the brig on the Gorton sands were dealt with in a very summary way indeed. They were Englishmen all, and were told by Merryweather that if they chose to "volunteer" into the service of the King and serve in the Royal Navy, they should receive a free pardon; but if not, they must stand the consequences.

Four of the smuggler-sailors volunteered at once and cheerfully. The fifth was the redoubtable skipper of the brig, a dark-haired, eagle-eyed little fellow, little as to stature, but of powerful build, and a Welshman by birth.

"I refuse," he cried, "to serve your King of England. He is not a man, but a baboon!"

The words were scarcely out of his mouth before Merryweather struck him straight from the shoulder, and down he rolled on the sand.

He got up, scowling at the lieutenant, and wiping the blood and sand from his face.

"Coward!" he hissed, "to treat a prisoner so. But faugh! it was always the way with the lily-livered Saxon. See!" he added, "you daren't do it, but for the gold swab on your shoulder, the sword by your side, and your hired assassins around you."

Off went Merryweather's coat and his sword. He flung them to Dan Brundell, who was standing scratching his head and looking very puzzled.

"These good fellows," he said, "will see fair play between us. I am no longer lieutenant in the King's service, but plain Jack Merryweather. Stand forth, David Jones, and see how soundly a Saxon can thrash a Welshman."

Jones sprang upon the lieutenant almost before he had finished the sentence.

"Like mountain cat that guards its young,
Full at the Saxon's throat he sprung."

That Welshman had arms like a gorilla, and Merryweather was all but strangled before he got clear away.

"Keep out of grips," shouted his own men. "Fight fair, skipper, and good luck to you."

He didn't mean to fight fair, however, if he could help it; but Merryweather got in one with his left and, figuratively speaking, knocked his man clean over the ropes. The Welshman never had another chance. He was no sooner up than down again. Embracing the soft sands didn't hurt him, it is true; but Merryweather's fists were rapidly making a mummy of him.

"I cave in," he cried at last.

"That isn't enough. Do you volunteer?"

"I do, sir," said Jones. "I've never met a harder-fisted Saxon in my life. Shake hands, Englishman. I volunteer on one condition."

Merryweather began to spar again.

"No more, thanks," said Jones, smiling grimly. "I want to serve in your ship when you go to fight the French. I want to be with a brave man. That is the condition."

"Granted," said Merryweather, coolly putting on his coat, "and I won't forget it."

"Neither will I," murmured David Jones; but no one heard him except Tom.

And just at that moment a bright idea occurred to young Tom. Why shouldn't he also sail with Merryweather? He determined to broach it to the kindly officer as soon as he had an opportunity, and it was not many weeks before this opportunity came.

All haste was now made to ship the prisoners. Prisoners now no longer, but brave "volunteers." The sloop had quietly dropped anchor at the very time the fight was going on between her commander and the skipper of the wrecked brig.

Before embarking Merryweather shook hands with Dan and Ashley, thanking them most heartily for their hospitality. Then he shook hands with Tom.

"Good-bye, youngster," he said; "but just take my advice. Don't be a sailor. Stay at home and plough the fields; be an honest fisherman, be a gardener, a hedger, or ditcher; but don't come to sea."

Young Tom was astonished at his own boldness as he made reply: "I shan't be a ditcher, nor a hedger, nor a gardener, nor a fisherman, and I shan't plough the fields; but I shall plough the sea."

Merryweather laughed as he leapt into his boat. He waved his hand again, then away he went, leaving the people to bury the dead, and pick up the spoils of the wreck as their reward.

* * * * *

Tom went off to school that day as usual, though he was very late. But Mr. Curtiss forgave him. Yet somehow he could not fix his attention upon either his books or his sums; and probably, therefore, the curate was just as glad when lessons were over as the boy was. He went home more slowly than usual, and less joyfully. He kept kicking the pebbles as he marched along the road, a sure sign he was deep in thought, and the first words he said to Uncle Bob on his return were these, "I wonder if ever Captain Merryweather will come again?"

"He is sure to, my lad. He said he would call and see us. Besides, he has an old shipmate not a great way off."

"What, another old shipmate as well as you, Uncle Bob?"

"Why, bless your dear heart, boy, I was only a man before the mast when in the same craft with Mate Merryweather, but since that time he's been in many a ship; kicked about like a wet swab. No, Tom, his friend is an officer and gentleman."

"Where does he live, and what is his name?"

"He lives, my lad, at Wells, or rather near it, at his old father's parsonage at Burnham Thorpe."

"And with his mother, Uncle Bob?"

"His mother is dead, long, long ago, lad."

"Is he as tall and pretty as Mr. Merryweather?"

"What droll questions you ask, Tom. But I have never seen Mr. Merryweather's friend. But I am told that he is but a little man, and very delicate in health."

"Oh! then he isn't a hero like brave Captain Merryweather. Oh, uncle, you should have seen how he fought the skipper of the brig; and Mr. Jones didn't know where to hit, and his nose and mouth were all blood and sand. I'd like to be a hero like the captain. What is the little man's name?"

"Horatio Nelson, lad."

"Oh!" said Tom. "It isn't much of a name, is it?"

But from that moment this strange boy seemed to regain his wonted spirits. He had something to live for. His hero, Captain Merryweather, who thrashed the Welshman, was coming back. Hooray! and he should count the weeks and days till he returned. So he went about his studies more energetically now, only one day he told Mr. Curtiss that he must teach him all he knew about navigation, because a sailor he meant to be and nothing else.

All that Mr. Curtiss didn't know about navigation would have filled a big book, only he was a right good fellow, and determined that he should at least teach his little pupil the history of the British navy, and the geography of the world. And I may as well say here, that these subjects proved of great present interest to Tom, and of future utility also.

* * * * *

It was about this period of young Tom's career that Daddy Dan completed a project he had long had in view, to give his poor brother Bob a little more interest and pleasure in life. Dan, it should be remembered, was a very hard-working man, and seldom either idle or laid up, so that the building of a private barge for Bob was work that he could not keep steady at. Rome, however, was not built in one day. Indeed, I question if that ancient city was completed in two. But "every little helps the mickle" you know, reader, and it is surprising what a deal one can do by degrees, and day by day. So in the merry month of June, much to Bob's joy and Tom's delight, the barge, Queen of the Broads, was all finished and ready for launching.

Little saucy Bertha, who had made it all up again with Tom, came with her maid Brown to the cottage to christen the barge with a bottle of gooseberry wine and she—the ship I mean—left the slips in grand style and took the water like a duck, amidst the wild huzzas and hoorays of the children and the neighbours, who had gathered from all quarters to behold the ceremony.

The Queen of the Broads was nothing much to look at, she was square in bows and square in stern, with no freeboard to speak of; in fact she was a kind of punt, but so constructed that Uncle Bob's low-wheeled cot could be run on board and on shore with the greatest ease, and without the slightest danger. She had a bit of a mast forward, and a little yawl mast aft, where there was room enough for quite a party. Moreover the barge was provided with oars and punting poles, so it must be confessed she was pretty complete upon the whole.

Well, after the barge herself was launched, Bob's cot was launched on board of her, and everything passed off so beautifully and "lovelily," as Bertha put it, that once more wild huzzas rose from the assembled multitude, and Meg, barking and frantic with joy, jumped on board, and took her place in the bows, just like a Christian.

Old Daddy Dan was so gratified that he couldn't speak for some time after the cot was successfully run on board. He just stood smiling and scratching his head.

Then everybody gathered round him and shook hands, and wished him so many good wishes that the tears rose to his eyes, and he had to swallow a big lump in his throat before he could make any adequate reply.

But the day was fine, with a gentle breeze rippling the broad, and whispering softly among the reeds, and so with Dan at the helm sail was hoisted, and the barge glided silently away into the open water.

This was but a trial trip, but it was a very successful one; everybody, including Bertha and Meg, returned happy and hungry, and Mrs. Brundell and Ruth, met them on the quay.

Somebody else as well. You see it never rains but it pours, and 'there, sure enough, with one arm round Ruth's waist, as gallantly as you please, and waving his cocked-hat in the air with the other, stood the bold Captain Merryweather himself.

You may be sure Tom was glad to see him, and took no pains to hide his joy either, for his eyes sparkled like farthing candles, and he turned as red as a ripe tomato with perfect joy.

Merryweather's "ship" was in the bay, and she had a consort this time, no other than the smuggling yawl, which it had taken him a whole fortnight to chase and secure. So the gallant officer had secured not only prize money, but several new "volunteers" for the Royal Navy. No wonder therefore that he was merry, or that the dinner which was partaken of on the lawn was—as the lieutenant himself phrased it—one of the pleasantest meals he had ever partaken of, either on board ship or on shore.

After dinner Tom volunteered to row Bertha and her maid home across the broads. But the child stipulated that Captain Merryweather should come also, and although this was a heavy cargo for the little boat, Tom was very glad indeed to have his hero on board.

Bertha had arranged her flirtations on a basis that was eminently satisfactory from her own point of view. When Mr. Merryweather was away at sea Tom was to have her company, and as much of her affection as could be spared from her pets and playthings; but whenever the captain should arrive, then Tom was to be, for the time being, thrown overboard.

And with this arrangement Tom was obliged to be content.

Well, Mr. Merryweather, much to the boy's sorrow, went off that very night, but promised that he would return in about a fortnight, and then—if Mr. Curtiss would spare him—would take Tom with him for a trip to Wells to see

HORATIO NELSON.

CHAPTER VIII.

"STAY AT HOME, MY LAD, AND PLANT CABBAGES."

"The Yarmouth Roads are right ahead,
    The crew with ardour burning;
Jack sings out, as he heaves the lead,
    On tack and half-tack turning,
                                'By the d'p eleven!'"—DIBDIN.

It is just one hundred years to-day—June 25th, 1892—since Tom started off with his friend Merryweather in the saucy sloop he commanded, on a visit to the home of the man who in future was destined to be Britain's greatest naval hero. The weather was fine, and the short voyage quite uneventful.

After they landed they had some distance to walk; but it was early morning, and Tom Bure felt quite equal to a journey of fifty miles—he told his friend—so on they marched right cheerily, till they came to the little village of Burnham Thorpe, and enquired for the parsonage. It wasn't very far from the old-fashioned, square-towered church, with its rather dilapidated looking graveyard. Not a beautiful house by any means, nor a large one either; little more, in fact, than an old-fashioned, high-roofed Norfolk cottage, with an additional wing to it, which latter, seeing the large family that the clergyman, Horatio's father, had, was very much needed indeed.

There were plenty of trees of a sort about the place, however, with flowers and bushes, and a rough attempt at a lawn, and on the whole the house looked homely, if not neat. The first to welcome Mr. Merryweather, in the small and curiously-furnished parlour into which he was shown, was the old parson himself. That they had met before was evident even to Tom.

"But, dear me, I'd hardly have known you," said Mr. Nelson. "Time works such wonders, and, you see, it has turned me pretty grey. Ah! well, we've got to work in this world; we'll rest in the next. You'll stay to dinner, of course. Horatio? Yes; and you'll find him in the garden doing a bit of work. No, poor lad, he is far from well, and he frets and fumes and worries so, I wonder he is alive or so healthy as he is. You'll find him if you go round. And this bold little man?"

"A boy whom Horatio will be glad to see for the sake of old times. He is determined to go to sea."

"Go to sea, eh! Well, I pity him. Better a millstone were placed about his neck, and he were cast into it. But there, I shan't say a word to discourage the youth."

Merryweather laughed, and went away to look for Horatio. They had not to walk far to find him. In an old coat he was; old shoes, old everything, and looking very serious over his work of digging and raking some ground from which potatoes had been dug in order to stick a few cabbages in.

"Shall I run down and ask that old gardener fellow," said Tom, "where the lad is?"

"What lad?" said Merryweather.

"The sailor. The lad his father spoke about."

"Why, that's our hero. That's the boy himself. What ho, there, Horatio! What cheer, my hearty?"

Nelson turned towards them, pitched away his spade, and ran up to shake hands with Merryweather.

A bright smile lighted up his whole face as he did so. Not a smile from the lips alone, for it went curling up round his large and expressive eyes, and seemed to change the contour of his whole countenance.

"Come and sit down, Jack, and sniff the roses. I heard you had been cruising round here, and doing all sorts of nasty things to our bold boys of Norfolk, who can neither get a drop of good rum nor a pinch of snuff for you. There you are; bring yourself to anchor. I'll sit on the tub."

"So you expected me?"

"Half-expected you. You always were such an erratic customer, you know, Jack, that I couldn't be sure of you. Seen my wife? No. Father's failing, isn't he? Ah! it hurts me to see it. His companionship, even more than that of my dear wife, is what partially reconciles me to this life of inactivity. Mind, I say more than my wife's society only for one reason—the young you may meet again, you know; but the old, ah! never."

Nelson kept rattling on, as Merryweather afterwards called it, without giving him much chance of putting an oar in. He would ask questions, and then answer them himself supposititiously, and go from one subject to another as quickly as he sometimes put his ship about in action.

"Egad, Merryweather!" he continued. "After all, you must consider yourself a very lucky fellow. While you are bounding o'er the ocean blue, chasing herring-boats, I'm doomed to—to plant kale. It is hard—hard—hard, after all I've done."

Here his brows were lowered, and his face became set and stern.

"But I have enemies at head-quarters, Jack."

"I think, Nelson," said Merryweather, getting in a sentence edgeways, "your greatest enemy is influence, or the want of it."

"Yes, yes, that's it, I do believe. I'm but a humble parson's son. I possess few if any great friends. Merit alone isn't worth a cabbage-stump. Your lordling, your duke or duckling, your moneyed scoundrel, your toady, your pimp, can walk into good positions, while honest men like myself are left to shiver in the cold. Come, we must change the subject, or I'll get angry and kick over the tub. I even wrote to the Admiralty to appoint me to the command of a cockle-boat, but—no.

"Heaven save me from my friends," continued Nelson bitterly.

"Your friends, Horace?"

"Ay, my friends. Not men like your honest self, Jack, but those old-wife fellows, who, by a few careless words, after dinner, for instance, can do more harm to a man under the guise of friendship than volumes of abuse could do. Ah, Jack Merryweather, I've known a tiny spark light a bigger conflagration than a red-hot shot. Why, it was only a day after my marriage that a friend fired off the following remark: 'Poor Horatio Nelson! Married and done for. And this marriage loses to the navy one of the brightest and most promising ornaments. It is a national loss, for otherwise he might have become the greatest man in the service.'

"But, Jack, did my marriage prevent my activity? Did it not rather increase it, just as it did my happiness? Did I not save to my government and my country over a million sterling by exposing in the West Indies the devilments of contractors and prize-agents who were robbing right and left?

"Burn and sink 'em, Jack; but I'd——."

"Horatio!"

"What, you here, Fanny?"

It was his wife who stood smiling behind him. He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, and his whole demeanour altered in a moment.

"There!" he cried, "I'm glad you've come. Entertain my friend Jack Merryweather—Jack, my wife—till I dig away my wrath. These cabbages ought to go in."

Not only was Jack himself, but even little Tom, amused at the way Nelson now threw the earth about. He seemed burying old sores and paying off old scores. Finally he planted the cabbages, handling them meanwhile as tenderly as if they had been living, sentient human beings. Then he came back his smiling old self to his tub, beside Jack Merryweather.

"What a peevish old hulk you must think me, Jack!" he said; "but then, you see, I'm not over well; for really my activity of mind preys upon this poor, puny bit of a body of mine, because it is the only fuel within its reach. But who is this modest but wondering young lad?"

"A sailor born, Nelson."

"I hope not."

"And I hope not too," said Mrs. Nelson. "He is far too handsome a boy to be wasted on the service."

"Fanny! Fanny! look at me. Behold the Herculean proportions of this husband of yours, thrown like pearls before the pigs."

"Horatio," said his wife, "I won't have you kick over the tub again, so beware, sir."

"Come hither, youngster."

Tom went over and stood beside Britain's future hero, and Nelson kindly took his hand and held it as he looked him in the face. Tom never winced.

"I believe you're a brave boy, and I hope not a bold one; but who is he, Jack?"

"You've heard speak of Miss Raymond?"

"Yes. Old Tom Bure wrote me about her, and said he was going to marry the most beautiful woman in all creation."

"And so he did," said Jack. "I was all aflame in that quarter too; but Tom wed her. Poor Tom is dead. Died on this very coast."

"And this is young Tom?"

"That is young Tom. Now, as an old sailor, give him a word of good advice."

"Stay at home, my lad, and plant cabbages."

Merryweather laughed heartily, though Tom felt ready to cry. But his friend came to his rescue.

"He won't thank you for that advice, and between you and me, Horace, there are signs in the air that tell me your days of cabbage planting are nearly numbered."

"You think I'll be put under the ground myself then?"

"No, not planted that way, but planted on the quarter-deck of a jolly ship of war."

"Wouldn't I make it hot for the enemy if I were. But it's too good to come true."

"Well, if I turn out a correct prophet, will you remember this boy?"

"If he comes to a ship that I command I'll be his friend for your sake, Jack."

"Aha! Horace, perhaps Jack will be there himself, then you'll have two to look after."

"Well, Jack, I'll show you both some fun, if the Frenchmen will but give us a chance."

"Never fear about the chance, my friend. It is coming; there is something in the air."

"You smell powder, then?"

"I do, and shot as well."

"So glad you've come, Jack. Come along, Tom. Merryweather, just give Fanny a convoy. Tom and I want to have a talk. Go right away in and tell father to commence carving. I'm going to show Tom a flower."

Ten minutes after the boy came in with a beaming face, and behind him, looking contented and happy, walked Horatio Nelson.

Tom forgot to tell his friend Jack Merryweather what Nelson had said to him, but all the way back to the shore that evening he could speak of no one else except the coming hero.

"He is such a dear, nice, good man," he said more than once, "and I don't care a bit for Bertha now. That sailor gentleman is so brave and good! But, Captain Merryweather, you must tell me his story. I know he has a story, because he has been fighting, and been at the North Pole too. He said he ran away from a great bear; but I don't believe that. He was laughing when he said it."

"Well, Tom, when next we go on the barge with Uncle Robert, I promise you I'll tell you Nelson's story; all, at least, that there is of it as yet."

CHAPTER IX.

HORATIO NELSON'S EARLIER DAYS.

"The child's the father of the man."

The broad or lake on the banks of which Dan Brundell's property stood in days of old has diminished considerably in size since then; but even at that time it was not very big, while the worm of a stream, that led therefrom into the larger and more beautiful lake, presented here and there difficulties that militated against the easy navigation of the barge. But Dan was not a man to do anything by halves, so he hired hands to widen the stream wherever necessary, and they did so in less than a week. Tom, with Ruth's assistance, was then able to guide the barge right away into the large Decoy, and a new life seemed to open out before Uncle Bob from the day of his first visit thereto. He even began to move his fingers more, and there were great hopes that in time his cure would be complete. Mr. Curtiss's duties were very light, and he used often to take Ruth's place in the barge. Then the party would embark, and on the broad itself and in the barge Tom's lessons would be conducted; Bob listening intently, and appearing to be quite as much edified as the boy himself.

And so the summer wore away, and autumn came with its tints of yellows and browns, and its darker and more sombre foliage for the trees. But the fine weather continued, although there were, of course, dark, rainy days now and then, which are to be expected even in sunny Norfolk.

And one fine morning, when Tom was away aloft in the crow's nest, telling Bob, who lay below, everything that was going on at sea, he suddenly gave vent to a wild whoop, that would have made a Sioux Indian bite his lips with envy.

"The Porcupine is in sight, Uncle Bob. Hooray-ay!"

Bob was quite as much pleased as Tom, for nothing delighted him more than a talk about old times with his quondam shipmate.

"Are they bearing up in this direction?" he asked.

"Yes, Uncle Bob. On the larboard tack, with the wind on the quarter, standing in shore-ways."

"Well, Tom, I don't think you can do better than run and meet him. Take Meg with you; she wants a run too."

Within an hour Merryweather was standing by his old shipmate's side, and the very sight of his happy face seemed to make Uncle Bob the happiest invalid that ever existed.

Dan came out of the shed in his paper cap to welcome Merryweather; Meg ran off to the house to say that somebody had come; and Ruth herself was very quickly on the spot; so everybody was as jolly as jolly could be.

After an early dinner, Bob's cot was wheeled on to the barge, and the young folks, including Meg and Ruth, went off to spend the afternoon on the beautiful broad.

The sun was shining very brightly to-day, and an awning was stretched across the middle part of the barge. She was anchored in a cosy corner, close to the tall whispering reeds. Merryweather lit his pipe. Tom sat down beside Uncle Bob and lit his for him, while Meg and Ruth curled up in the bows. Then there was silence for the interminably long space of fifteen seconds.

"What are you all waiting for?" asked Merryweather, "and all looking at me for?"

"Why," answered Tom, "you said you would tell us all you know about Nelson, you know, who is going to thrash the French, with—with my assistance."

"Bravo, Tom!" cried Bob, "you're made of the right stuff."

HORATIO NELSON'S EARLIER LIFE.

"Well," said Merryweather, "no one in the service has been more talked about than my friend Horatio. Nobody who knows him can help liking him, and yet, I believe, it is his friends who have caused him to be overlooked so far. All I know about him has not been gleaned from any one source, but from dozens, but being interested in my friend, I have tried to winnow the chaff of untruth from the solid grains of fact, and it is these I'm going to serve out to you."

"Well done!" cried Uncle Bob. "You were always a regular reefer at spinning a yarn, mate. So heave round. Cheerily does it, Mr. Merryweather!"

"Well," said Merryweather, "be that as it may, I first knew Horatio Nelson when my grandmother took me to that same old-fashioned village of Wells, Tom, where you and I went the other day, though there weren't quite so many houses there then. We went from Cromer in a fishing-boat, and a rough sail I mind we had. But this was nothing to me. I was a regular sailor even then, and I wasn't five years of age. I'm not sure that the rector of Burnham Thorpe wasn't a distant relation of grandma's; anyhow, I know the family were very good to us, and I know something else, namely, that Horatio's father turned out of his own room that we might have it. There was but little ceremony in the Rectory; but plenty to eat, without a superfluity of dainties. That didn't trouble me in those days; why, I could have eaten a seagull.

"Horatio would be about ten at the time of my visit, for he is a good five years older than I am. But he wasn't much of a chap, and I couldn't help thinking, young as I was, that his grandmother—for he had a grandma as well as myself—spoiled him. My grandmother didn't spoil me; but she often spanked me.

"Well, poor lad, he had only recently lost his mother—about a year before, or thereabout—and this loss, I think, was the hardest blow to the rector ever he had. His family was a big one; eleven, if I remember rightly, and the majority sons. Rough and right boys they were, and though Horatio was delicate, there wasn't a bit of the girl about him. He was as fond of a joke as any lad in creation; but always tender towards the inferior animals. How he would have adored a dog like Meg there, for instance!

"I went to school at North Walsham two years after this, and found young Nelson there. He hadn't grown much; but he was tough—tough as regards enduring pain. He had many a thrashing; but he would purse up his mouth, lower his brow, and never cry a bit. Our flogger was called Jones, and I need hardly say he was a Welshman. The only revenge we could take upon Jones—or rather the bigger boys, for being but a nipper I shouldn't include myself—was pretending he couldn't hurt us. That used to make the Welshman wild.

"Geography, maps, and stories from history, were young Horace's chief delight in those days. In the house I mean; out of doors or away on the marsh and moor, hunting for birds' nests, it was quite another thing. He seemed born to live in the fresh air, and I'm sure that it was doing him an injustice and stunting his growth to keep him poring over old musty books so constantly.

"I used to visit at the Rectory pretty often after this, and Horatio's grandmother had always something to tell about him, that redounded to his credit. But she never told the same story twice the same.

"'Horace is such a brave lad,' she would say, 'I don't believe he knows what fear is!'"

"And she would go on to exemplify this in a dozen different ways. 'And he is a God-fearing boy too,' she would add.

"This last I could well believe. His father is one of the most simple-minded Christians I ever met. His faith is like that of a little child.

"But about his not knowing what fear was I always had my doubts. However, there was one boy whom Horace had invited to the Rectory for a few days, and who used to spin wonderful yarns to the old lady about her grandson's pluck and courage. But he rather overdid the thing, and he didn't always blend piety with the bravery he imputed to Horace. For instance, he told his grandma that at Downham Market, where he and Horace were at school, there was a nasty snarly old woman who used to paddle through the muddy streets on high pattens, knitting stockings and mumbling to herself. The boys used to imitate her, when off would come one of the pattens, which she threw like a boomerang, and always hit some of them. But one day Horace, who happened to be in the crowd, coolly picked up the patten, and marching home with it put it in the fire. The old creature had to limp to her house in one patten, and she never threw another. A very limp yarn, I thought, and one that was so little appreciated that Horace was told not to bring that lying boy back again to the Rectory.

"Of course, all brave, good boys rob an orchard, because the others are afraid; and, of course, they never eat any of the apples themselves. Oh, no! Whenever, Tom, you hear a story of this kind, you are safe enough to put it down as a grandmother's yarn.

"Independent, however, of my friend Horatio's love of freedom and stories of the sea, he was a thinking lad, and he couldn't but notice that his father had more than enough to do in supporting so large a family in a semi-genteel way. He thought of this, and made up his mind to go to sea. If he couldn't go as a young officer he would go as a cabin boy, in the old-fashioned style. But he had an uncle in the navy—a rough and right true blue sailor, Captain Suckling—and Horace induced his father to write to him in his behalf.

"The reply came pat enough, and I have seen it. 'What on earth has poor little Horatio done,' the letter ran, 'so weak a boy that he, above all the rest, should be sent to rough it out at sea? Well, let him come, and the very first time we go into action a cannon-ball may knock his head off, and so at once provide for him.'"

"There was a rough kind of jocularity in this; but for all that Captain Suckling was a kindly-hearted man.

"And now, young Nelson was destined for the sea. He had only to wait. He returned to the Walsham school, and in the spring of 1771, one miserable, drizzly morning—such a morning as gives one the shivers to think of getting up—a man came from the Rectory to take poor Horace away.

"Were those tears, I wonder, in his eyes, as he said 'good-bye' to us all? I think they were, and I know that as he got together his small belongings he did not speak much, and was so nervous that some of us helped him; but I'm sure we didn't envy him.

"His ship was the Raisonnable, 64 guns, his captain Maurice Suckling, and Horace was rated as middie. To add to his small outfit, and see him on the way, his father went with him as far as London, then the poor boy had to bundle and go all by himself to Chatham, off which his ship was lying.

"Horace has told me that the misery of arriving in that strange, busy port, all friendless and alone, was about the most acute ever he suffered in his life. There were scores, ay hundreds, of ships there, hundreds, ay thousands, of bluejackets and marines in the slushy streets, revelling, drinking, brawling, and fighting. He was hustled by dockyard-men, he was mocked and laughed at by women of the bare-headed class; cold, damp, and hungry, yet no one knew or cared where the Raisonnable lay. When he asked some sailors if they knew Captain Suckling, they suggested his standing a flowing can and they'd soon find out.

"Young Horace was hesitating what to do, when a stern voice shouted, 'Gangway, lads.' The men saluted and made room at once, and here, with his sword under his arm, stood a tall naval officer.

"'Captain Suckling, my boy? I know him well. Come along with me.'

"He led poor hungry Horace, not to his ship, but to his own quarters in the dockyard, and gave him a good dinner, asking him many questions about his life in the country, his father and brothers and sisters. He finished off by saying—

"'Well, whatever brings some boys to sea I can't tell, though I was a boy myself once upon a time. Never mind, lad, I'll see you off, else the rascally boatmen will cheat you.'

"The Raisonnable lay well off in the middle of the tideway, and braced up by the good dinner he had eaten, he began to think a sailor's life was just the thing for him after all. Besides, with her frowning red-muzzled guns, her tall and tapering spars, and spider-web of rigging, the frigate was a noble sight. Then there were the neatly-arranged hammocks over the bulwarks, a flash of crimson here and there, and here and there the glitter of a bayonet.

"Horace got in over the port or larboard side, up a rope ladder, and his box was hauled up after him.

"Then he stood there, alone in a crowd, for many an interminably long minute. No one took any more notice of him than if he'd been a bag of biscuit. Nor did Horace know what to do, or what to say, or whom to address.

"He spoke to a man in a dark blue jacket at last, and called him 'sir.' It was only the doctor's servant, but he answered him kindly, and in due time he found his way to the cock-pit, and was afterwards bundled into his own mess—the gunroom.

"Captain Suckling did not join for days after this, so Horace had to fight his first battles single-handed. Bloodless battles no doubt they were, for Horace was but a weakly lad at this time, and but ill able to play that game of fisticuffs which, Tom, I think you will admit I played with some skill that day when the Welsh giant, David Jones, challenged me to mortal combat on the sands of Yare.

"No, poor Horace at this time, you must remember, was only newly cut loose from his grandma's apron-strings. But, Bob, your pipe is out. Tom, my hearty, light Uncle Bob's pipe before I put another spoke in the wheel."