“Yes, and bring in a few good Spanish prizes, sir. It’ll be all right, brother Harry. He thinks he don’t like the sea, but he does. Now then, you dog, why don’t you come and shake hands?”
“Because I don’t want to go, uncle.”
“What, you dog! Yah! Get out. I don’t believe it.”
“Go and shake hands with your uncle, Syd,” said the captain, sternly.
The boy walked across to where the admiral was seated on the arm of one of the great easy-chairs, and held out his hand.
“Here, what’s this?” cried the bluff, choleric old sailor. “Not a boy’s hand, is it. Feels like the tail of a codfish. Shake hands like a man, you dog. Ah, that’s better. There, cheer up; you’ll soon get used to the sea and love it. You won’t be happy ashore after your first voyage.”
“Want any money, Syd?” said the captain.
“No, thankye, father,” said the boy, gloomily.
“What!” roared the admiral, laboriously thrusting his hand into his breeches pocket and dragging it out again. “Don’t believe it. A boy who don’t want money is a monster, not fit to be trusted with it. Here you are, boy. Five guineas. Don’t fool it away, but buy anything with it you like.”—A strange contradiction, by the way, though the old admiral did not notice it.—“Put it in your pocket, and—Pst! Syd,” he whispered, “whenever you want any more, write to me. Don’t bother the dad. Our secret, eh, you dog?”
“What’s that?” cried the captain.