Pereg. I will. 'Tis just thirty years ago, since I left England.
Job. That's a little after the time I set up in the hardware business.
Pereg. About that time, a lad of fifteen years entered your shop: he had the appearance of a gentleman's son; and told you he had heard, by accident, as he was wandering through the streets of Penzance, some of your neighbours speak of Job Thornberry's goodness to persons in distress.
Job. I believe he told a lie there.
Pereg. Not in that instance, though he did in another.
Job. I remember him. He was a fine, bluff, boy!
Pereg. He had lost his parents, he said; and, destitute of friends, money, and food, was making his way to the next port, to offer himself to any vessel that would take him on board, that he might work his way abroad, and seek a livelihood.
Job. Yes, yes; he did. I remember it.
Pereg. You may remember, too, when the boy had finished his tale of distress, you put ten guineas in his hand. They were the first earnings of your trade, you told him, and could not be laid out to better advantage than in relieving a helpless orphan;—and, giving him a letter of recommendation to a sea captain at Falmouth, you wished him good spirits, and prosperity. He left you with a promise, that, if fortune ever smil'd upon him, you should, one day, hear news of Peregrine.
Job. Ah, poor fellow! poor Peregrine! he was a pretty boy. I should like to hear news of him, I own.