“My son, my lord,” said the captain.
“Don’t ‘my lord’ me, man!” cried the old gentleman, fiercely. “You always were a proud, stubborn fellow. And so this is your son, is it?” he continued, peering searchingly in the boy’s face. “Ah! chip of the old block; stubborn one too, I can see. Shake hands, sir. Now then, what are you going to be?”
“A sailor, sir—my lord, I mean.”
“Don’t correct yourself, boy. A sailor, eh? Like your father and grandfather before you, eh? Good; can’t do better. I wish you luck, my lad. We want a school of lads of your class. The navy’s full of milksops, and dandies, and fellows who have got their promotion by favour, while men like your father, who have done good service and ought to be doing it now, instead of idling about as country gentlemen—”
“Not my fault,” cried the captain, hotly. “I’ve begged for employment till I’ve grown savage, and sworn I would appeal no more.”
“Hah! yes,” said the old gentleman, sitting back in his chair, and holding Syd’s hand still in his; “there’s a deal of favour and interest in these days, my dear Belton. John Bull’s ships ought to be commanded by the best men in the navy, but they’re not; and those of us who would like to do away with all the corruption, can’t stir. Never mind that now. Let’s talk of Admiral Tom. How is the dear old boy?”
“Like I am—growing old and worn with disappointment.”
“Nonsense, Belton; nonsense. We can’t shape our own lives. Better make the best of things as they are. Well, my boy, what ship have you joined?”
“None, sir—yet.”
“I came up to see Dashleigh, on the strength of his having been under my brother, and asked him to take my son.”