"No, sir, not quite," said the young man.
"Well, what did you command? Did it have two masts?"
"It didn't have any masts, sir."
"No masts!"
"No, sir; it was a rock."
"Good Lord!" ejaculated the old man, sitting down feebly and staring. "A rock? What do you mean? Are you trifling with me? That is no way to gain the lass."
"Well, sir," answered Maurice, gravely, "here are my orders authorizing me to command His Majesty's sloop-of-war Diamond Rock, five guns and one hundred and twenty men. It's a great stone hill off Martinique. I commanded it for one year and six months, at the end of which we beat off M. de Villeneuve's great fleet, and were only captured when our powder gave out, by a heavy squadron which bombarded us for two days. I was wounded——"
"Oh, Jim, wounded!" cried Dorothy, with a shriek of alarm, rushing toward him, while the dazed old man made no movement to prevent her.
"It is nothing, Dot darling," said the young fellow, manfully, but not making the slightest effort to avoid the caress. "I was wounded and taken on board the French flag-ship Bucentaur, from which I escaped to the Victory at Trafalgar, where Nelson beat the French fleet."
"Hey? What?" cried the old man. "Beat the French? But, of course, we always do that."