Charles, the elder of the two, was in London.
“Wildfire Ned,” as he had been christened by the country people, on account of his mad freaks, loved to live at the Hall, so that he might have ample opportunities for indulging in shooting, fishing, hunting, swimming, and particularly sailing in a small bay near by, a sport of which he was so passionately fond that old salts always called him “Ned, the Sailor Boy.”
His adopted uncle loved Ned, perhaps more so than Charles, for he was a handsome, brave, and adventurous youth of about fifteen years old, the ladies’ pet, and the envy of all young men for miles around.
The old knight had long tried to curb his roving and seafaring propensities, but all to no purpose.
On the cold December night on which the story opens—the night after old Bertram’s murder—the knight sat by a huge log fire in his library, reading.
Ned was pouring over some favourite “tale of the sea,” and sighing for a chance to distinguish himself against the many bloodthirsty pirates and buccaneers that then infested the neighbouring seas.
“Oh! isn’t that jolly?” said Ned, striking the table with his fist. “Oh! I wish I had been there.”
“Where?” said the knight, looking up in surprise.
“Why, in the ship I’m reading about. Didn’t they give the pirates and smugglers something, that’s all! Why, uncle, a small English sloop of war with six guns, fought a whole fleet of buccaneers. Wasn’t that jolly, eh?”
“Still thinking of the sea, eh, Ned?”