The old boatswain put his head on one side, casting looks of affectionate pride on his treasure.
“There, my lad, that’s my little fortin’, enough to pay my freight through to Davy Jones’s locker, I daresay. And if there’s any of it left over, by Gosh! you shall have it, for I’ve neither parent nor friend in the world, nor I don’t so much as know the place where I was born. And drown me if I don’t love you, my young matey!”
I was so weak at the time that these hearty expressions of the old fellow fairly melted me, though I could scarce refrain from smiling at the thoughts of the legacy which I was like to inherit.
“You shall come with me and welcome,” I told him. “We will start together as soon as ever I can get off this bed; and when we get to England I will bring you to my own home, and ask my parents to provide you with a shelter for my sake.”
“That’s right enough,” he answered, “and very kind of you. But, mind, old Muzzy ain’t looking for no charity. Where I goes, I takes my little fortin’, and them as takes care of me will get the benefit of it, d’ye see.”
He swept up the money into his bag again, and had just restored it to his bosom when there came a sound outside the door, and who should walk in but Colonel Clive!
I strove to raise myself in the bed as he entered, but this he at once prevented.
“Lie still, youngster!” he exclaimed, walking up to the bedside, followed by Mr. Scrafton. “Why, how’s this; they never told me you were ill till I was on the point of starting for Chander Nugger, when I had no time to come and see you? But you are on the high road to recovery by this time, surely?”
“Thank you, sir, I am much improved,” I managed to stammer out, overwhelmed by this condescension on the part of so great a man. “And are the French beaten?” I asked anxiously, for I had not heard the news.