Mrs Strong shook her head slowly, and that shake, as interpreted by her eyes, meant a great deal.
“Ah! you may look,” the captain said, “but you do not; and as for this cub—come here, you great, strong, impudent young ruffian!” he added; and as his son rose from his chair he took him by the shoulders, gave him a hearty shake, followed it up with a back-handed blow in the chest, and ended by gripping his right hand in a firm, manly clasp, his voice turning slightly husky as he continued:
“Mark, my lad, Heaven knows how often, when I’m far away at sea, I feel as if I’d give anything for a sight of your mother’s face, ay, and a good look at yours, you ugly young imitation! How dare you try and grow up like me!”
Mrs Strong smiled.
“But it won’t do, my lad. I’m earning the pennies in my ship, and you must go on with your studies, take care of your mother, and when I come back after my next voyage we’ll have a talk about what you’re to be. Let’s see; how old are you?”
“Sixteen, father.”
“Sixteen, and discontented! Why, Mark, do you know that you possess what hundreds of thousands of men most envy?”
“I do, father?”
“To be sure, sir; health, strength, all your faculties, and all the world before you.”
“But I never see any of the world like you do,” said Mark dolefully.