“I believe I do,” said Driscoll, with a significant smile.
“You 'll not be too hard on him for the terms, especially if he has any old family papers to deposit as security,—eh?”
“Just so—just so. A mere nominal guarantee,” said Driscoll, still laughing. “Oh, dear! but it's a queer world, and one has to work his wits hard to live in it.” And with this philosophic explanation of life's trials, Mr. Driscoll took his leave of Dunn, and walked homeward.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE OSTEND PACKET
It was a wild, stormy night, with fast-flying clouds above, and a heavy rolling sea below, as the “Osprey” steamed away for Ostend, her closed hatchways and tarpaulined sailors, as well as her sea-washed deck and dripping cordage, telling there was “dirty weather outside.” Though the waves broke over the vessel as she lay at anchor, and the short distance between the shore and her gangway had to be effected at peril of life, the captain had his mail, and was decided on sailing. There were but three passengers: two went aboard with the captain; the third was already on deck when they arrived, and leisurely paraded up and down with his cigar, stopping occasionally to look at the lights on shore, or cast a glance towards the wild chaos of waves that raged without.
“Safe now, I suppose, Grog?” muttered Beecher, as the vessel, loosed from her last mooring, turned head to sea out of the harbor.
“I rather suspect you are,” said Davis, as he struck a light for his cigar. “Few fellows would like to swim out here with a judge's warrant in his mouth such a night as this.”
“I don't like it overmuch myself,” said Beecher; “there's a tremendous sea out there, and she's only a cockleshell after all.”
“A very tidy one, sir, in a sea, I promise you,” said the Captain, overhearing, while with his trumpet he bellowed forth some directions to the sailors.