I believe there are few people who do not take a strong interest in the English sailor, particularly in one who has been maimed in the defence of his country. I always have, and as I heard the poor disabled fellow bawling out his ditty, certainly not with a very remarkable voice or execution, I pulled out the drawer behind the counter, and took out some halfpence to give him. When I caught his eye I beckoned to him, and he entered the shop. "Here, my good fellow," said I, "although a man of peace myself, yet I feel for those who suffer in the wars;" and I put the money to him.
"May your honour never know a banyan day," replied the sailor; "and a sickly season for you, into the bargain."
"Nay, friend, that is not a kind wish to others," replied I.
The sailor fixed his eyes earnestly upon me, as if in astonishment, for, until I had answered, he had not looked at me particularly.
"What are you looking at?" said I.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed he. "It is—yet it cannot be!"
"Cannot be! what, friend?"
He ran out of the door, and read the name over the shop, and then came in, and sank upon a chair outside of the counter. "Japhet—I have found you at last!" exclaimed he, faintly.
"Good Heaven! who are you?"
He threw off his hat, with false ringlets fastened to the inside of it, and I beheld Timothy. In a moment I sprang over the counter, and was in his arms. "Is it possible," exclaimed I, after a short silence on both sides, "that I find you, Timothy, a disabled sailor?"