“Yes. It isn’t likely I’d sail without black Tom. That would be to throw away my luck, you know, and I’d never become an Admiral.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed master; “but how superstitious sailors are!”
“And some soldiers too, ain’t they? ha, ha!”
Then both laughed, and Beecroft led the way to his quarters, a sentry at the door saluting as we passed by.
I declare to you, children, when I saw honest Tom Brandy lying there on a skin rug in front of the stove—for it was almost winter now, and very cold—you could have knocked me down with a sledge hammer.
I felt all over in a whirl with joy, and for a moment I didn’t know whether my top or my toes were uppermost.
Tom jumped up with a fond cry, and ran to meet me, and the two of us ran round and round the table in order to allay our feelings, like a pair of three-month-old kittens.
But we both settled down on the skin in a few minutes, and commenced singing a duet together, to the accompaniment of a coffee-urn that simmered above the stove.
“Just like old times, isn’t it, soldier?” said Beecroft, looking down at me and Tom.
“Just like old times, sailor,” said master.