Captain Carrington, who was immediately sobered by the catastrophe, which he felt had been occasioned by his own wilfulness, ran aft to the taffrail; and when he saw the poor sailor struggling in the waves, impelled by his really fine nature, he darted overboard to save him; but he was not by any means a powerful swimmer, and, encumbered with his apparel, it was soon evident that he could do no more than keep himself afloat.
Newton, who perceived how matters stood, with great presence of mind caught up two of the oars from the boat hanging astern, and darted over to the assistance of both. One oar he first carried to the seaman, who was exhausted and sinking. Placing it under his arms, he then swam with the other to Captain Carrington, who could not have remained above water but a few seconds more without the timely relief. He then quietly swam by the side of Captain Carrington, without any attempt at extra exertion.
The boat was soon lowered down, and in a few minutes they were all three again on board, and in safety. Captain Carrington thanked Newton for his assistance, and acknowledged his error to the first lieutenant. The officers and men looked upon Newton with respect and increased good-will; and the sailors declared that the captain was a prime little fellow, although he hadn't had an "edication."
Nothing worthy of remark occurred during the remainder of the passage. The ship arrived at Plymouth, and Newton took leave of his friendly shipmates, Captain Carrington requesting that Newton would command any interest that he had, if ever it should be required. It was with a throbbing heart that Newton descended from the outside of the coach which conveyed him to Liverpool, and hastened towards the obscure street in which he left his father residing. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when Newton arrived at his father's door. To his delight, he perceived through the shop-window that his father was sitting at his bench; but his joy was checked when he perceived his haggard countenance. The old man appeared to be absorbed in deep thought, his cheek resting upon his hand, and his eyes cast down upon the little bench, to which the vice used to be fixed, but from which it was now removed.
The door was ajar, and Newton entered with his portmanteau in his hand; but whatever noise he might have made was not sufficient to rouse Nicholas, who continued in the same position.
With one glance round the shop, Newton perceived that it was bare of everything; even the glazed cases on the counter, which contained the spectacles, &c., had disappeared. All bespoke the same tale, as did the appearance of his father—misery and starvation.
"My dearest father!" cried Newton, unable to contain himself any longer.
"How!—what?" cried Nicholas, starting at the voice, but not looking round. "Pho! nonsense!—he's dead," continued the old man, communing with himself, as he again settled into his former position.
"My dearest father, I'm not dead!—look round—'tis Newton! alive and well."
"Newton!" replied the old man, rising from his stool, and tottering to the counter, which was between them, on which he laid both his hands to support himself, as he looked into his son's face. "'Tis Newton, sure enough! My dear, dear boy!—then you an't dead?"