“Good-bye to you, lads; and when you go to war, may you send the foe to the bottom of the ocean. There,”—he handed Jack a coin as he spoke—“drink bon voyage to us.”
“Ah, that will we!”
The sailors once more scraped and bowed, and Reginald hurried below to read Annie’s letter. It was just a lover’s letter—just such a letter as many of my readers have had in their day—so I need not describe it.
Reginald sat in his little cabin—it was only six feet square—with his elbow leaning on his bunk, his hand under his chin, thinking, thinking, thinking. Then an idea struck him. The skipper of the yacht—called “captain” by courtesy—and Reginald were already the best of friends. Indeed, Dickson—for that was his name—was but six or seven years older than Reginald.
“Rat-tat-tat!” at the captain’s door. His cabin was pretty large, and right astern, on what in a frigate would be called “the fighting deck.” This cabin was of course right abaft the main saloon, and had a private staircase, or companion, that led to the upper deck.
“Hullo, doctor, my boy!”
“Well, just call me Grahame, mon ami.”
“If you’ll call me Dickson, that’ll square it.”
“Well, then, Dickson, I’m terribly anxious to get out and away to sea. If not soon, I feel I may run off—back to my lady love. When do we sail for sure?”
The captain got up and tapped the glass.