Arrived at the quarterdeck, the stranger took hold of Archie’s arm, as if he had known him all his life.
“Now,” he said, “my name is Vesey, generally called Captain Vesey, because I never did anything that I know of to merit the title. I’ve been in an army or two in different parts of the globe as a free lance, you know.”
“How nice!”
“Oh, delightful!” said Captain Vesey, though from the tone of his voice Archie was doubtful as to his meaning. “Well,” he added, “I own a yacht, now waiting for me, I believe, at the Cape of Good Hope, if she isn’t sunk, or burned, or something. And your tally?”
“My what, sir?”
“Your tally, your name, and the rest of it?”
“Archie Broadbent, son of Squire Broadbent, of Burley Old Farm, Northumberland.”
“What! you a son of Charlie Broadbent? Yankee Charlie, as we used to call him at the club. Well, well, well, wonders will never cease; and it only shows how small the world is, after all.”
“And you used to know my father, sir?”
“My dear boy, I promised myself the pleasure of calling on him at Burley. I’ve only been home for two months, however; and I heard—well, boy, I needn’t mince matters—I heard your father had been unfortunate, and had left his place, and gone nobody could tell me whither.”