Duty! what a sacred thing it is, and how noble the man or boy who never shirks it, be that duty what it may!
Duty—though thy lot be lowly,
God’s broad arrow though art seen,
Making very triflers holy,
And exalting what were mean;
In this thought the poor may revel,
That, obeying Duty’s word,
Lowliness is on a level
With my lady or my lord.
Captain Hardy soon found out Harry’s worth. He could trust him implicitly, for the boy was far too manly to tell a falsehood, even to hide a fault.
The worthy captain, however, seemed really astonished when the boy told him he was not twelve years of age.
He had guessed him at nearly sixteen.
“Never mind,” he said, with a smile, “you’ve been growing too fast, you’ve been growing to the length. The cold will alter that, and you’ll grow to the breadth.”
Cold? It was indeed cold, and the farther north the good ship went the colder it got, the more fiercely blew the wind, and the higher and wilder were the seas. Harry slept in a bunk in the half-deck, and used to amuse his mates by telling them stories, composed on the spot; he had an excellent imagination, and on these occasions made good use of it.
The fire was kept in all the livelong night, but, notwithstanding, the bunks and the counterpane used to be thickly snowed over long before morning with the frozen breath of the sleepers.
The days were terribly short, and the nights dark and gloomy in the extreme.
About a week after the good ship sailed she fell in with streams, first of wet snow, then of small pieces of ice that cannonaded against the ship’s side with a terrific noise.