Chapter Fifty Four.
Home.
It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed.
Don was panting to get back into his mother’s arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble.
“No, no; don’t go by, Mas’ Don. I dursen’t go alone.”
“What, not to meet your own wife?”
“No, Mas’ Don; ’tarn’t that. I’m feared she’s gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas’ Don.”
“No, no, Jem. I must get home.”
“We’ve stood by one another, Mas’ Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don’t forsake your mate now.”
“I’ll stay, Jem,” said Don.