“An ugly seam or ridge on the skull where I had a chop from an Indian axe; and a knot here in my right arm, where it was broken and mended again.”
“Is that all, sir?”
“No; one other mark—a trifle done some time or another—here on my breast. Like to see it, gentlemen?”
“Ha!” ejaculated the old lawyer. “If you are Mr George Harrington, sir, you have the figure of a heart tattooed upon your breast—a heart transfixed by an arrow.”
“That anything like it, gentlemen?” said the young man, unbuttoning his vest, and throwing open the flannel shirt he wore, to show, plainly marked upon his white skin, the figure described.
“Like it, sir?—yes,” said the old lawyer. “Mr George Harrington, welcome home, sir, and I hope we may be the best of friends.”
“And I add my congratulations, and the same wish, Mr George Harrington,” said the doctor, shaking one hand as his colleague shook the other; “but,” he added to himself, “as to the friendship, I have my doubts.”
“And now it is my turn, Cousin George,” said Saul Harrington, advancing with extended hand. “I apologise for playing the British bulldog to you, but you were a stranger, and you will be the last to blame me for showing a bold front in defence of your patrimony.”
“To be sure, Cousin Saul. How are you, old fellow? Stop and let’s all dine together. No more business to-day, I hope. Let’s have a glass of wine—champagne—and, Cousin Saul, suppose you and I have a good long talk over a cigar.”
“We will,” said Saul, as they stood hand in hand, eye gazing into eye, and, singularly enough, with similar thoughts agitating each breast.