“Captain Yetsom, Mr. Rosenthal.”
The two gentlemen thus introduced to each other, bowed somewhat informally.
“Wrecked from the Sultana, some two years since, and cast, with two companions, on this desert island,” the young officer went on to explain.
“Lord bless my soul alive! Come down into my cabin and take a glass of wine,” said the captain, as if the calamity had just then occurred, and the sufferer was in immediate need of a restorative.
Captain Yetsom was what might well be called a stout man. He was of medium height, but thickly set and solidly built, with a large head, broad shoulders, deep chest and strong limbs. He had a florid complexion, blue eyes and sandy hair and whiskers. He wore the undress uniform of a captain in the United States Navy.
“Come—come down into my cabin and take something to drink. It will help you.”
“Thanks, captain. I will go down into your sanctum with pleasure; but as we have just risen from the luncheon table, I do not require any refreshment,” said Justin.
“Nonsense, man, you must need something to drink! A glass of generous wine would set you up. Come down and take—— Lord bless my life and soul, what a calamity! Were they all lost?”
“All but three,” answered Justin, as he followed the hospitable and obstinate sailor down into the cabin.
And there, over some rich old port, Justin had to tell again the tale of the woeful shipwreck, and to hear again the story of those fatal fields of Bethel, Manassas and Ball’s Bluff.