"We've got the money and the ships, the sailors and the soldiers. Why, Mr. Dawson, let war come, and we'll flog the Russians on shore, and whip them off the seas."
"Well, I'm not so sure; but then I'm getting old, you know. But you'll see. The Russian privateers and legalized pirates will cover the ocean, and British commerce won't have a show."
"Did you see that noble Highland regiment march past, Mr. Dawson? Man, that's the stuff!—Did you see them, Johnnie?"
"O yes, sir; me and Peter marched all the way with them. O sir, I want to be a soldier or a sailor, and help to whip the Russians. Dear father was a soldier, you know," he added sadly.
Mr. Dawson and Tom Morgan exchanged glances.
"Tell us more about your father, Johnnie."
"Oh, I don't know much. I hardly remember father; but poor mother has his picture, and, O sir, he looks so noble, with his kilt and his sword and his feather bonnet. He only had one arm, you know, and—and he was drowned in the Clyde."
"Now tell us about your mother and sister. Where are they, and what do they do?"
Then Johnnie told all the sad story of sickness, of struggle, and of poverty that the reader already knows. More than once the tears stole into his eyes as he spoke, and very patiently indeed did the two gentlemen listen to all he said.
"Tom," said Mr. Dawson, when Johnnie had finished, "I think we're on the right lay."