“Jack Dunlap, by all that is marvelous!”
The sailor-man looked up and with an exclamation of pleased recognition, shouted:
“Tom Maxon, by all that is fortunate!”
“Come up here this instant, you sea-dog, wet your whistle and swap yarns with me,” called the first speaker, rising from the table at which he was seated and hurrying to the top of the half dozen steps that rose from the sidewalk to the entrance on the veranda.
The two men shook hands with the warmth and cordiality of old cronies, when the sailor reached the balcony. The meeting was evidently as agreeable as it was unexpected.
The man who had been seated on the veranda, when the sailor approached, was apparently of the same age as the friend whose coming he had hailed with delight. He, too, was evidently a son of Neptune, for he wore the cap and undress uniform of a lieutenant in the United States Navy.
He was a big, fine man on whose good-looking, tanned face a smile seemed more natural, and, in fact, was more often seen than a frown.
“Jack, old man, you can’t imagine how glad I am to run afoul of you. Had the choice been left to me as to whom I would choose to walk up the street just now, I’d have bawled out ‘Good old Jack Dunlap!’ Well, how are you anyway? Where’ve you been? and how are all in Boston? But first let’s have a drink; what shall it be, bully?”
All of these questions and ejaculations were made while the naval man still held Jack’s hand and was towing him along like a huge, puffing tug toward the table from which the officer sprang up to welcome his companion.