When women like Meta love it is very pure love, for the very reason I have stated, for Meta was not ashamed to go on her knees with her love. A very peculiar girl, you say? Would to Heaven there were millions like her in this fair land of ours.
On the very evening of their reunion, Claude left his bride-elect, and went thundering away through the moonlight along the stony path on his sure-footed pony.
He would come again, next day or next, he told her, but duty was duty, and must be obeyed.
He was more happy than might be expected—happy because hopeful.
He found everything well on board, just as he had expected he would.
“I’ve engaged a few more hands, sir,” the mate told him. “The right metal I like a mixture of nationalities, and yet I don’t. Bother the foreign scum that they man British ships with nowadays, sir, leaving honest English Jack on shore to starve.—But give me a crew like what we now have, sir—a crew mostly Scotch and English; then I say one or two Norwegians or Danes don’t do much harm.”
“Right, Mr Lloyd. And now I must tell you I am going to engage an extra hand. Can you make room?”
“Put him in a bunk, sir.”
“A bunk, Mr Lloyd? He’d never be able to get in, and if he did he couldn’t stick his legs out. He is seven feet high and over, and broad in proportion.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed the mate. “But I have it, sir; I’ve got a hammock big enough to hold an elephant.”