“I am alone, sir,” said I, almost bursting into tears, for mingled joy and disappointment; for I was, I own it, disappointed at the want of sympathy for my lone condition.
“What ship did you belong to, boy?” asked he, as shortly as before.
“A yacht, sir,—the 'Firefly.'”
“Ah, that 's it; so they shoved you ashore here. That's what comes of sailing with gentlemen, as they calls 'em.”
“No, sir; we landed—a few of us—during a calm—”
“Ay, ay,” he broke in, “I know all that,—the old story; you landed to shoot rabbits, and somehow you got separated from the others; the wind sprung up meantime; the yacht fired a gun to come off—eh, is n't that it! Come, my lad, no gammon with me. You 're some infernal young scamp that was 'had up' for punishment, and they either put you ashore here for the rats, or you jumped overboard yourself, and floated hither on a spare hencoop. But never mind,—we 'll give you a run to Quebec; jump in.”
I followed the order with alacrity, and soon found myself on board the “Hampden” transport, which was conveying the —th Regiment of Foot to Canada.
“No one but this here boy, sir,” said the coxswain; shoving me before him towards the skipper, who, amidst a crowd of officers in undress, sat smoking on the after-deck.
A very significant grunt seemed to imply that the vessel's way was lost for very slight cause.
“He says as how he belonged to a yacht, sir,” resumed the coxswain.