“My young friend,” said he, “these superstitious fancies and acts are best omitted. I am sure that you do not need this earth to remember your mother. Besides, it must be prejudicial to your health to carry it about your person, to say nothing of the singularity of the deed. Take my advice, and convey it carefully to the nearest consecrated ground, and there reverently deposit it. We will preserve this ball, with the pistol; and now let Mr Ankins dress your slight wound. We must see you well through this affair, and the Admiralty must prolong your leave of absence, if it be necessary. I should wish to know more of you as a private individual—there is my card. You are a very good lad for honouring your mother. Fare ye well.”
With many compliments from the surgeon also, and a roller or two of cotton round my chest, we mutually took leave of each other; the gentleman very considerately refusing the guinea that I tendered him.
Having discharged the post-chaise, Mr Pigtop, his two companions, and myself, left the office,—I bearing in my hand the handkerchief nearly filled with mould. What did I do with it—saturated as it was with my blood, and owing as I did my life to it? Perhaps, sweet and gentle lady, you think that I preserved it in a costly vase, over which I might weep, or had it made up by some fair hands systematically into a silken belt, and still wore it next my heart, or, at least, that I placed it in a china flower-vase, and planted a rose-tree therein, which I watered daily by my tears. Alas! for the lovers of the romantic, I did none of these. I told you before all my incidents turn out to be mere matter-of-fact affairs. Like a good boy, I did as the magistrate bade me. As I passed by Saint Paul’s, Covent Garden, I turned into the churchyard; and with a silent prayer for the departed, and asking pardon of God for the profanation of which I had been guilty, I poured out the whole of the dust, with reverence, on a secluded spot, and then returned and joined my companions.
Taking leave of them shortly after, I repaired to the White Horse, in Fetter Lane, and, eating a light supper, retired to bed early, and thus finished this very memorable day.
On the day succeeding, I found my arm so much swollen, and myself altogether so ill, that I kept my bed. I need not mention that the same surgeon attended me. I took this opportunity of furnishing myself with a few necessaries and a carpet-bag; so I was no longer the gentleman without any luggage.
On the third day of my confinement to the house, sitting alone in the deserted coffee-room, chewing the cud of my bitter fancies, Mr Pigtop made his appearance. Though I knew the man to be thoroughly selfish, I believed him to have that dogged sort of honesty not uncommon to very vulgar minds. As, just then, any society was welcome, I received his condolements very graciously, and requested his company to dinner. My invitation was gladly accepted; and he occupied the time previous to that repast in giving me a history of his life. It was a very common one. He was the son of a warrant-officer. He was all but born on board a man-of-war. At the age of fifteen he got his rating as a midshipman, and then rose to be a master’s mate. There his promotion ceased, and, to all appearances, for ever. He had been already twenty-five years in the service, and was turned forty.
Never having had anything beyond his pay, his life had been one of ceaseless privation and discontent. He had now nearly spent all his money, and had omitted to make those reparations to his wardrobe, rendered so necessary by the malignity of Joshua Daunton. He wished to leave the service, and be anything rather than what he had been. He had no relations living, and positively no friends. His prospects were most disconsolate, and his wretchedness seemed very great. However, he found considerable relief in unburthening himself to me.
After our frugal dinner of rump steaks, and our one bottle of port, he returned to the subject of the morning by asking my advice as to his future conduct.
“Nay, Pigtop,” I replied, “you should not ask me. You are much more capable of judging for yourself—you, who have been so much longer in the world than I.”
“There you are out of your reckoning. I have lived more than twice your years, and have never been in the world at all. On shore, I’m like a pig afloat in a washing-tub. What would you advise me to do?”