The latter smiled, but did not speak.
"Walk this way, gentlemen--walk this way, if you please," said
Mr. Marble, encouragingly, passing a ball of spun-yarn, all the while,
to help a rigger serve a rope. "When did you leave the country?"
This produced a general laugh, even the yellow rascal of a mulatto,
who was passing into the cabin with some crockery, grinning in our
faces at this salutation. I saw it was now or never, and determined
not to be brow-beaten, while I was too truthful to attempt to pass for
that I was not.
"We left home last night, thinking to be in time to find berths in one
of the Indiamen that is to sail this week."
"Not _this_ week, my son--not till _next_," said Mr. Marble,
jocularly. "Sunday is _the_ day. We run from Sunday to Sunday--the
better day, the better deed, you know. How did you leave father and
mother?"
"I have neither," I answered, almost choked. "My mother died a few
months since, and my father, Captain Wallingford, has now been dead
some years."
The master of the John was a man of about fifty, red-faced,
hard-looking, pock-marked, square-rigged, and of an exterior that
promised anything but sentiment. Feeling, however, he did manifest,
the moment I mentioned my father's name. He ceased his employment,
came close to me, gazed earnestly in my face, and even looked kind.
Pages:
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80