“You have no relations or friends to assist you?”
The mournful shake of the head was eloquently negative.
“And yet you will not resume that life for which alone you were educated?”
“I will not, and I cannot.”
“Well, you must either go on the highway or marry a fortune.”
“Look at this figure-head—look at this scar. No—no one will ever splice with such an old ravelled-out rope-yarn as Andrew Pigtop. The road is no longer a gentlemanly profession. I intend to be a servant.”
“You, Pigtop!—begging your pardon, who the devil would be encumbered with you?”
“You, I hope—no, don’t laugh; I know you to be a gentleman born, and that you have a hundred a year. By hints that I have picked up, I believe when you come of age, and all is done right by you, that you’ll have thousands. We have one view in common—to hang that rogue, Daunton. I certainly do not wish to put on your livery, without you insist upon it. Call me your secretary, or anything you like—only let me be near you—your servant and your friend.”
I saw the poor fellow’s eye glisten, and his weather-worn features quiver. I looked upon his worn and shabby uniform, and reflected upon his long and unrequited services. Venerate him I knew that I never could; but I already pitied him exceedingly. I resolved, at least, to assist him and to keep him near me for a time.
“Well, Pigtop,” I at length said, “if you would be faithful—”