I had thus passed along without attracting much notice until, as I reached about the centre of the street, a man—a thoroughly weather-beaten grizzled old fisherman, with a grey eye as keen as an eagle’s—suddenly starting from a group to waylay me, exclaimed with a shout—
“My eyes and marlin-spikes, but its Dick Galbraith or his ghost!”
The words were like a spark to a barrel of gunpowder—the news flew through the village—so, warmly grasping the old seaman’s hand, I said hurriedly—
“Not his ghost, Parker, but himself: come down this evening, and bring two or three of the old acquaintances with you, and I’ll tell you all about it; but I’m now anxious to see my wife, and break the news of my return to her myself.”
“That’s right. She’s still in the same cottage on the rock side, Dick, my hearty, and my eyes, won’t she just be ready to jump out of her skin for joy at seeing you.”
With a happy smile and nod, I ran hastily on, for I feared the news might reach my wife before I could get there. The next moment the well-known cottage, so often recalled in Caffraria, rose up before me in reality. Yes, there was its weather-beaten old shingle front, there were the little loop-hole windows, and there was the small white swing gate leading into the patch of garden ground. Breathlessly I passed through the latter and peeped in at the cottage door, which stood ajar.
At the table, on which the tea things were laid, sat Katie, as pretty, neat, and tidy as ever, but a shade sadder looking, while by her side were our children, little specimens of healthy humanity, which it did a father’s heart good to look upon. Controlling my emotion as much as I could, and assuming a very doleful tone and expression, I said, disguising my voice—
“Please, missus, have you got a ha’penny or crust for a poor shipwrecked mariner, who’s been nigh a year or more among the savidges, and lost all his kit.”
“Yes, come in, my good man,” responded Katie’s gentle tones. “No shipwrecked sailor,” she added sadly, “shall ever be turned from my threshold. Enter and partake of our simple meal.”
Pushing open the door, I went in trembling in every limb. As I appeared, my youngest, a stout pudgy little fellow of nearly three, suddenly slipped off his chair, and toddling towards me, his bread and butter extended, lisped,—