Фредерик Марриет
Jacob Faithful
Chapter Thirty Six
A long story, which ends in the opening of the tin box, which proves to contain deeds much more satisfactory to Mr Wharncliffe than the deeds of his uncle—Begin to feel the blessings of independence, and suspect that I have acted like a fool—After two years’ consideration, I become quite sure of it, and, as Tom says, “No mistake.”
“The gentleman who prevented my taking off the young lady is uncle to both of us. We are, therefore, first cousins. Our family name is Wharncliffe. My father was a major in the army. He died when I was young, and my mother is still alive, and is sister to Lady Auburn. The father and mother of Cecilia are both dead. He went out to India to join his brother, another uncle, of whom I shall speak directly. He has now been dead three years, and out of the four brothers there is only one left, my uncle; with whom Cecilia is living, and whose Christian name is Henry. He was a lawyer by profession, but he purchased a patent place, which he still enjoys. My father, whose name was William, died in very moderate circumstances; but still he left enough for my mother to live upon, and to educate me properly. I was brought up to the law under my uncle Henry, with whom, for some years, I resided. Cecilia’s father, whose name was Edward, left nothing; he had ruined himself in England, and had gone out to India at the request of my uncle there, whose name was James, and who had amassed a large fortune. Soon after the death of Cecilia’s father, my uncle James came home on furlough, for he held a very high and lucrative situation under the Company. A bachelor from choice, he was still fond of young people; and having but one nephew and one niece to leave his money to, as soon as he arrived with Cecilia, whom he brought with him, he was most anxious to see me. He therefore took up his quarters with my uncle Henry, and remained with him during his sojourn in England; but my uncle James was of a very cold and capricious temper. He liked me best because I was a boy, and one day declared I should be his heir. The next day he would alter his intention, and declare that Cecilia, of whom he was very fond, should inherit everything. If we affronted him, for at the age of sixteen as a boy, and fourteen as a girl, worldly prospects were little regarded, he would then declare that we should not be a shilling the better for his money. With him money was everything: it was his daily theme of conversation, his only passion; and he valued and respected people in proportion to what they were supposed to possess. With these feelings he demanded for himself the greatest deference from Cecilia and me, as his expectant heirs. This he did not receive; but on the whole he was pleased with us, and after remaining three years in England, he returned to the East Indies. I had heard him mention to my uncle Henry his intention of making his will, and leaving it with him before he sailed; but I was not certain whether it had been done or not. At all events, my uncle Henry took care that I should not be in the way; for at that time my uncle carried on his profession as a lawyer, and I was working in his office. It was not until after my uncle James returned to India that he gave up business and purchased the patent place which I mentioned. Cecilia was left with my uncle Henry, and as we lived in the same house, our affections, as we grew up, ripened into love. We often used to laugh at the threats of my uncle James, and agreed that whoever might be the fortunate one to whom he left his property, we would go halves, and share it equally.
“In the meantime I still followed up my profession in another house, in which I at present am a partner. Four years after the return of my uncle James to India news came home of his death; but it was also stated that no will could be found, and it was supposed that he died intestate. Of course my uncle Henry succeeded as heir-at-law to the whole property, and thus were the expectations and hopes of Cecilia and of myself dashed to the ground. But this was not the worst of it: my uncle, who had witnessed our feelings for each other, and had made no comment, as soon as he was in possession of the property, intimated to Cecilia that she should be his heiress, provided that she married according to his wishes; and pointed out to her that a fortune such as she might expect would warrant the alliance of the first nobleman in the kingdom; and he very plainly told me that he thought it advisable that I should find lodgings for myself, and not be any longer an inmate in the same house as was my cousin, as no good would result from it. Thus, sir, we were not only disappointed in our hopes, but thwarted in our affections, which had for some time been exchanged. Maddened at this intimation, I quitted the house; and at the same time the idea of my uncle James having made a will still pressed upon me, as I called to mind what I had heard him say to my uncle Henry previous to his sailing for India. There was a box of deeds and papers, the very box now in your possession, which my uncle invariably kept in his bedroom. I felt convinced that the will, if not destroyed (and I did not believe my uncle would dare to commit an act of felony), was in that box. Had I remained in the house I would have found some means to have opened it; but this was no longer possible. I communicated my suspicions to Cecilia, and begged her to make the attempt, which would be more easy as my uncle would not suspect her of being bold enough to venture it, even if he had the suspicion. Cecilia promised, and one day my uncle fortunately left his keys upon his dressing-table when he came down to breakfast, and went out without missing them. Cecilia discovered them, and opened the box, and amongst other parchments found a document labelled outside as the will of our uncle James; but women understand little about these things, and she was in such trepidation for fear that my uncle should return that she could not examine it very minutely. As it was, my uncle did return for his keys just as she had locked the box and placed the keys upon the table. He asked her what she was doing there, and she made some excuse. He saw the keys on the table, and whether suspecting her, for she coloured up very much, or afraid that the attempt might be made at my suggestion, he removed the box and locked it up in a closet, the key of which, I believe, he left with his banker in town. When Cecilia wrote to me an account of what had passed, I desired her to find the means of opening the closet, that we might gain possession of the box; and this was easily effected, for the key of another closet fitted the lock exactly. I then persuaded her to put herself under my protection, with the determination that we would marry immediately; and we had so arranged that the tin box was to have accompanied us. You are aware, sir, how unfortunately our plan turned out—at least, so far unfortunately, that I lost, as I thought, not only Cecilia, but the tin box, containing, as I expect, the will of my uncle, of which I am more than ever convinced from the great anxiety shown by my uncle Henry to recover it. Since the loss he has been in a state of agitation, which has worn him to a shadow. He feels that his only chance is that the waterman employed might have broken open the box, expecting to find money in it, and being disappointed, have destroyed the papers to avoid detection. If such had been the case, and it might have been had it not fallen into such good hands, he then would have obtained his only wish, that of the destruction of the will although not by his own hands. Now, sir, I have given you a full and honest account of the affair, and leave you to decide how to act.”
“If you leave me to decide, I shall do it very quickly,” replied Mr Turnbull. “A box has fallen into my hands, and I do not know who is the owner. I shall open it, and take a list of the deeds in contains, and advertise them in the Times and other newspapers. If your dead uncle’s will is in it it will, of course, be advertised with the others, and after such publicity your uncle Henry will not venture, I presume, to say a word, but be too glad not to be exposed.”
Mr Turnbull ordered a locksmith to be summoned, and the tin box was opened. It contained the document of the uncle’s purchase of the patent place in the courts, and some other papers, but it also contained the parchment so much looked after—the last will and testament of James Wharncliffe, Esquire, dated two months previous to his quitting England. “I think,” observed Mr Turnbull, “that in case of accident, it may be as well that this will should be read before witnesses. You observe, it is witnessed by Henry Wharncliffe, with two others. Let us take down their names.”
The will was read by young Wharncliffe, at the request of Mr Turnbull. Strange to say, the deceased bequeathed the whole of his property to his nephew, William Wharncliffe, and his niece, Cecilia, provided they married; if they did not, they were left 20,000 pounds each, and the remainder of the fortune to go to the first male child born after the marriage of either niece or nephew. To his brother the sum of 10,000 pounds was bequeathed, with a liberal arrangement, to be paid out of the estate, so long as his niece lived with him. The will was read, and returned to Mr Turnbull, who shook hands with Mr Wharncliffe, and congratulated him.
“I am so much indebted to you, sir, that I can hardly express my gratitude, but I am still more indebted to this intelligent lad, Faithful. You must no longer be a waterman, Faithful,” and Mr Wharncliffe shook my hand. I made no answer to the latter observation, for Mr Turnbull had fixed his eye upon me: I merely said that I was very happy to have been of use to him.
“You may truly say, Mr Wharncliffe,” observed Mr Turnbull, “that your future prosperity will be through his means; and, as it appears by the will that you have 9000 pounds per annum safe in the Funds, I think you ought to give a prize wherry, to be rowed for every year.”
“And I will take that,” replied I, “for a receipt in full for my share in the transaction.”
“And now,” said Mr Turnbull, interrupting Mr Wharncliffe, who was about to answer me, “it appears to me that it may be as well to avoid any exposure—the case is too clear. Call upon your uncle—state in whose hands the documents are—tell him that he must submit to your terms, which are, that he proves the will, and permits the marriage to take place immediately, and that no more will be said on the subject. He, as a lawyer, knows how severely and disgracefully he might be punished for what he has done, and will be too happy now to accede to your terms. In the meantime I keep possession of the papers, for the will shall never leave my hands until it is lodged in Doctors’ Commons.”
Mr Wharncliffe could not but approve of this judicious arrangement, and we separated; and, not to interfere with my narrative, I may as well tell the reader at once that Mr Wharncliffe’s uncle bowed to circumstances, pretended to rejoice at the discovery of the will, never mentioned the loss of his tin box, put the hand of Cecilia into that of William, and they were married one month after the meeting at Mr Turnbull’s, which I have now related.
The evening was so far advanced before this council-of-war was over, that I was obliged to defer the delivery of the cheque to Mr Drummond until the next day. I left about eleven o’clock, and arrived at noon; when I knocked at the door the servant did not know me.
“What did you want?”
“I wanted to speak with Mrs or Miss Drummond, and my name is Faithful.”
He desired me to sit down in the hall while he went up; “And wipe your shoes, my lad.” I cannot say that I was pleased at this command, as I may call it, but he returned, desiring me to walk up, and I followed him.
I found Sarah alone in the drawing-room.
“Jacob, I’m so glad to see you, and I’m sorry that you were made to wait below, but—if people who can be otherwise will be watermen, it is not our fault. The servants only judge by appearances.”
I felt annoyed for a moment, but it was soon over. I sat down by Sarah, and talked with her for some time.
“The present I had to make you was a purse of my own knitting, to put your earnings in;” said she, laughing; and then she held up her finger in mockery, crying, “Boat, sir; boat, sir. Well, Jacob, there’s nothing like independence, after all, and you must not mind my laughing at you.”
“I do not heed it, Sarah,” replied I; (but I did mind it very much) “there is no disgrace.”
“None whatever, I grant; but a want of ambition, which I cannot understand. However, let us say no more about it.”
Mrs Drummond came into the room and greeted me kindly. “When can you come and dine with us, Jacob? Will you come on Wednesday?”
“Oh, mamma! He can’t come on Wednesday; we have company on that day.”
“So we have, my dear; I had forgotten it; but on Thursday we are quite alone: will you come, then on Thursday, Jacob?”
I hesitated, for I felt that it was because I was a waterman that I was not admitted to the table where I had been accustomed to dine at one time, whoever might be invited.
“Yes, Jacob,” said Sarah, coming to me, “it must be Thursday, and you must not deny us; for although we have greater people on Wednesday, the party that day will not be so agreeable to me as your company on Thursday.”
The last compliment from Sarah decided me, and I accepted the invitation. Mr Drummond came in, and I delivered to him Mr Turnbull’s cheque. He was very kind, but said little further than that he was glad that I had promised to dine with them on Thursday. The footman came in and announced the carriage at the door, and this was a signal for me to take my leave. Sarah, as she shook hands with me, laughing, asserted that it was not considerate in them to detain me any longer, as I must have lost half-a-dozen good fares already; “So go down to your boat, pull off your jacket, and make up for lost time,” continued she; “one of these days mamma and I intend to go on the water, just to patronise you.” I laughed and went away, but I was cruelly mortified. I could not be equal to them, because I was a waterman. The sarcasm of Sarah was not lost upon me; still there was so much kindness mixed with it that I could not be angry with her. On the Thursday I went there, as agreed; they were quite alone; friendly and attentive; but still there was a degree of constraint which communicated itself to me. After dinner Mr Drummond said very little; there was no renewal of offers to take me into his employ, nor any inquiry as to how I got on in the profession which I had chosen. On the whole, I found myself uncomfortable, and was glad to leave early, nor did I feel at all inclined to renew my visit. I ought to remark that Mr Drummond was now moving in a very different sphere than when I first knew him. He was consignee of several large establishments abroad, and was making a rapid fortune. His establishment was also on a very different scale, every department being appointed with elegance and conducive to luxury. As I pulled up the river something within my breast told me that the Dominie’s prophecy would turn out correct, and that I should one day repent of my having refused the advances of Mr Drummond—nay, I did not exactly know whether I did not, even at that moment, very much doubt the wisdom of my asserting my independence.
And now, reader, that I may not surfeit you with an uninteresting detail, you may allow nearly two years to pass away before I recommence my narrative. The events of that time I shall sum up in one or two pages. The Dominie continued the even tenor of his way—blew his nose and handled his rod with as much effect as ever. I seldom passed a Sunday without paying him a visit, and benefiting by his counsel. Mr Turnbull was always kind and considerate, but gradually declining in health, having never recovered from the effects of his submersion under the ice. Of the Drummonds I saw but little; when we did meet, I was kindly received, but I never volunteered a call, and it was usually from a message through Tom that I went to pay my respects. Sarah had grown a very beautiful girl, and the well-known fact of Mr Drummond’s wealth, and her being an only daughter, was an introduction to a circle much higher than they had been formerly accustomed to. Every day, therefore, the disparity increased, and I felt less inclined to make my appearance at their house.
Stapleton, as usual, continued to smoke his pipe and descant upon human natur’. Mary had grown into a splendid woman, but coquettish as ever. Poor Tom Beazeley was fairly entrapped by her charms, and was a constant attendant upon her, but she played him fast and loose—one time encouraging and smiling on him, at another rejecting and flouting him. Still Tom persevered, for he was fascinated, and having returned me the money advanced for his wherry, he expended all his earnings on dressing himself smartly, and making presents to her. She had completely grown out of any control from me, and appeared to have a pleasure in doing everything she knew I disapproved; still, we were on fair friendly terms as inmates of the same house.
Old Tom Beazeley’s board was up, and he had met with great success; and all day he might be seen hammering at the bottom of boats of every description, and heard, at the same time, lightening his labour with his variety of song. I often called there on my way up and down the river, and occasionally passed a few hours listening to his yarns, which, like his songs, appeared to be inexhaustible.
With respect to myself, it would be more a narrative of feelings than of action. My life glided on as did my wherry—silently and rapidly. One day was but the forerunner of another, with slight variety of incident and customers. My acquaintance, as the reader knows, were but few, and my visits occasional. I again turned to my books during the long summer evenings, in which Mary would walk out, accompanied by Tom and other admirers. Mr Turnbull’s library was at my service, and I profited much. After a time reading became almost a passion, and I was seldom without a book in my hand. But although I improved my mind, I did not render myself happier. On the contrary, I felt more and more that I had committed an act of egregious folly in thus asserting my independence. I felt that I was superior to my station in life, and that I had lived with those who were not companions—that I had thrown away, by foolish pride, those prospects of advancement which had offered themselves, and that I was passing my youth unprofitably. All this crowded upon me more and more every day, and I bitterly repented, as the Dominie told me that I should, my spirit of independence—now that it was too late. The offers of Mr Drummond were never renewed, and Mr Turnbull, who had formed the idea that I was still of the same opinion, and who, at the same time, in his afflicted state—for he was a martyr to the rheumatism—naturally thought more of himself and less of others, never again proposed that I should quit my employment. I was still too proud to mention my wishes, and thus did I continue plying on the river, apathetic almost as to gain, and only happy when, in the pages of history or among the flowers of poetry, I could dwell upon times that were past, or revel in imagination. Thus did reading, like the snake which is said to contain in its body a remedy for the poison of its fangs, become, as it enlarged my mind, a source of discontent at my humble situation; but, at the same time, the only solace in my unhappiness, by diverting my thoughts from the present. Pass, then, nearly two years, reader, taking the above remarks as an outline, and filling up the picture from the colours of your imagination, with incidents of no peculiar value, and I again resume my narrative.
Chapter Thirty Seven
A chapter of losses to all but the reader, though at first Tom works with his wit, and receives the full value of his exertions—We make the very worst bargain we ever made in our lives—We lose our fare, we lose our boat, and we lose our liberty—All loss and no profit—Fair very unfair—Two guineas worth of argument not worth twopence, except on the quarter-deck of a man-of-war
“Jacob,” said Tom to me, pulling his wherry into the hard, alongside of mine, in which I was sitting with one of Mr Turnbull’s books in my hand; “Jacob, do you recollect that my time is up to-morrow? I shall have run off my seven years, and when the sun rises I shall be free of the river. How much more have you to serve?”
“About fifteen months, as near as I can recollect, Tom.—Boat, sir?”
“Yes; oars, my lad; be smart, for I am in a hurry. How’s tide?”
“Down, sir, very soon; but it’s now slack water. Tom, see if you can find Stapleton.”
“Pooh! never mind him, Jacob, I’ll go with you. I say, Jones, tell old ‘human natur’’ to look after my boat,” continued Tom, addressing a waterman of our acquaintance.
“I thought you had come up to see her,” said I to Tom, as we shoved off.
“See her at Jericho first,” replied Tom “she’s worse than a dog vane.”
“What, are you two again?”
“Two indeed—it’s all two—we are two fools. She is too fanciful; I am too fond; she behaves too ill, and I put up with too much. However, it’s all one.”
“I thought it was all two just now, Tom.”
“But two may be made one, Jacob, you know.”
“Yes, by the parson: but you are no parson.”
“Anyhow, I am something like one just now,” replied Tom, who was pulling the foremost oar; “for you are a good clerk, and I am sitting behind you.”
“That’s not so bad,” observed the gentleman in the stern-sheets, whom we had forgotten in the colloquy.
“A waterman would make but a bad parson, sir,” replied Tom.
“Why so?”
“He’s not likely to practice as he preaches.”
“Again, why so?”
“Because all his life he looks one way and pulls another.”
“Very good—very good, indeed.”
“Nay, sir, good in practice, but still not good in deed—there’s a puzzle.”
“A puzzle, indeed, to find such a regular chain of repartee in a wherry.”
“Well, sir, if I’m a regular chain to-day, I shall be like an irregular watch to-morrow.”
“Why so, my lad?”
“Because I shall be out of my time.”
“Take that, my lad,” said the gentleman, tossing half-a-crown to Tom.
“Thanky, sir; when we meet again may you have no more wit than you have now.”
“How do you mean?”
“Not wit enough to keep your money, sir—that’s all!”
“I presume you think that I have not got much.”
“Which, sir; wit or money?”
“Wit, my lad.”
“Nay, sir, I think you have both: the first you purchased just now; and you would hardly have bought it, if you had not money to spare.”
“But I mean wit of my own.”
“No man has wit of his own; if he borrows it, it’s not his own; if he has it in himself, it’s mother wit, so it’s not his.”
We pulled into the stairs near London Bridge, and the gentleman paid me his fare. “Good-bye, my lad,” said he to Tom.
“Fare-you-well, for well you’ve paid your fare,” replied Tom, holding out his arm to assist him out of the boat. “Well, Jacob, I’ve made more by my head than by my hands this morning. I wonder, in the long run, which gains most in the world.”
“Head, Tom, depend upon it; but they work best together.”
Here we were interrupted—“I say, you watermen, have you a mind for a good fare?” cried a dark-looking, not over clean, square-built, short young man, standing on the top of the flight of steps.
“Where to, sir?”
“Gravesend, my jokers, if you ain’t afraid of salt water.”
“That’s a long way, sir,” replied Tom; “and for salt water, we must have salt to our porridge.”
“So you shall, my lads, and a glass of grog into the bargain.”
“Yes; but the bargain a’n’t made yet, sir. Jacob, will you go?”
“Yes, but not under a guinea.”
“Not under two guineas,” replied Tom, aside. “Are you in a great hurry, sir?” continued he, addressing the young man.
“Yes, in a devil of a hurry; I shall lose my ship. What will you take me for?”
“Two guineas, sir.”
“Very well. Just come up to the public-house here, and put in my traps.”
We brought down his luggage, put it into the wherry, and started down the river with the tide. Our fare was very communicative, and we found out that he was the master’s mate of the Immortalité, forty-gun frigate, lying off Gravesend, which was to drop down next morning and wait for sailing orders at the Downs. We carried the tide with us, and in the afternoon were close to the frigate, whose blue ensign waved proudly over the taffrail. There was a considerable sea arising from the wind meeting the tide, and before we arrived close to her we had shipped a great deal of water; and when we were alongside, the wherry, with the chest in her bows, pitched so heavily that we were afraid of being swamped. Just as a rope had been made fast to the chest, and they were weighing it out of the wherry, the ship’s launch with water came alongside, and, whether from accident or wilfully, I know not, although I suspect the latter, the midshipman who steered her shot her against the wherry, which was crushed in, and immediately filled, leaving Tom and me in the water, and in danger of being jammed to death between the launch and the side of the frigate. The seamen in the boat, however, forced her off with their oars, and hauled us in, while our wherry sank with her gunwale even with the water’s edge, and floated away astern.
As soon as we had shaken ourselves a little, we went up the side, and asked one of the officers to send a boat to pick up our wherry.
“Speak to the first lieutenant—there he is,” was the reply.
I went up to the person pointed out to me; “If you please, sir—”
“What the devil do you want?”
“A boat, sir, to—”
“A boat! the devil you do!”
“To pick up our wherry, sir,” interrupted Tom.
“Pick it up yourself,” said the first lieutenant, passing us, and hailing the men aloft. “Maintop, there, hook on your stays. Be smart. Lower away the yards. Marines and after-guard, clear launch. Boatswain’s mate.”
“Here, sir.”
“Pipe marines and after-guard to clear launch.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“But we shall lose our boat, Jacob,” said Tom to me. “They stove it in, and they ought to pick it up.” Tom then went up to the master’s mate, which he had brought on board, and explained our difficulty.
“Upon my soul, I dar’n’t say a word. I’m in a scrape for breaking my leave. Why the devil didn’t you take care of your wherry, and haul a-head when you saw the launch coming?”
“How could we, when the chest was hoisting out?”
“Very true. Well, I am very sorry for you, but I must look after my chest.” So saying, he disappeared down the gangway ladder.
“I’ll try it again, anyhow,” said Tom, going up to the first lieutenant. “Hard case to lose our boat and our bread, sir,” said Tom touching his hat.
The first lieutenant, now that the marines and after-guard were at a regular stamp and go, had, unfortunately more leisure to attend to us. He looked at us earnestly, and walked aft to see if the wherry was yet in sight. At that moment up came the master’s mate, who had not yet reported himself to the first lieutenant.
“Tom,” said I, “there is a wherry close to, let us get into it, and go after our boat ourselves.”
“Wait one moment to see if they will help us—and get our money, at all events,” replied Tom; and we both walked aft.
“Come on board, sir,” said the master’s mate, touching his hat with humility.
“You’ve broke your leave, sir,” replied the first lieutenant, “and now I’ve to send a boat to pick up the wherry through your carelessness.”
“If you please, they are two very fine young men,” observed the mate. “Make capital foretopmen. Boat’s not worth sending for, sir.”
This hint, given by the mate to the first lieutenant, to regain his favour, was not lost. “Who are you, my lads?” said the first lieutenant to us.
“Watermen, sir.”
“Watermen, heh? was that your own boat?”
“No, sir,” replied I; “it belongs to the man that I serve with.”
“Oh, not your own boat? Are you an apprentice, then?”
“Yes, sir, both apprentices.”
“Show me your indentures.”
“We don’t carry them about with us.”
“Then how am I to know that you are apprentices?”
“We can prove it, sir, if you wish it.”
“I do wish it; at all events, the captain will wish it.”
“Will you please to send for the boat, sir? she’s almost out of sight.”
“No, my lads, I can’t find king’s boats for such service.”
“Then we had better go ourselves, Tom,” said I, and we went forward to call the waterman, who was lying on his oars close to the frigate.
“Stop—stop—not so fast. Where are you going, my lads?”
“To pick up our boat, sir.”
“Without my leave, heh?”
“We don’t belong to the frigate, sir.”
“No; but I think it very likely that you will, for you have no protections.”
“We can send for them, and have them down by to-morrow morning.”
“Well, you may do so if you please, my lads; but you can not expect me to believe everything that is told me. Now, for instance, how long have you to serve, my lad?” said he, addressing Tom.
“My time is up to-morrow, sir.”
“Up to-morrow. Why, then, I shall detain you until tomorrow, and then I shall press you.”
“If you detain me now, sir, I am pressed to-day.”
“Oh, no! you are only detained until you prove your apprenticeship, that’s all.”
“Nay, sir, I certainly am pressed during my apprenticeship.”
“Not at all, and I’ll prove it to you. You don’t belong to the ship until you are victualled on her books. Now I sha’n’t victual you to-day, and therefore you won’t be pressed.”
“I shall be pressed with hunger at all events,” replied Tom, who never could lose a joke.
“No you sha’n’t; for I’ll send you both a good dinner out of the gun-room. So you won’t be pressed at all,” replied the lieutenant, laughing at Tom’s reply.
“You will allow me to go, sir, at all events,” replied I; for I knew that the only chance of getting Tom and myself clear was my hastening to Mr Drummond for assistance.
“Pooh! nonsense; you must both row in the same boat as you have done. The fact is, my lads, I’ve taken a great fancy to you both, and I can’t make up my mind to part with you.”
