"Go on, lad."
"Frank's people were very rich, you know; but as far as education went Frank, poor fellow, didn't know much. He was going to be a barrister, he told me, and confessed at the same time he hadn't cleverness enough to be a bar tender even, or a billiard marker. Then his father died on a Christmas night, and Benshee House was burned down—and my poor friend Frank was ruined. Daddy would have got him on as middie like myself, but he was too proud to accept a money favour, and he couldn't have passed the exams, either. But he went to sea, and I greatly fear he has gone before the mast. Oh, fancy, sir, a gentleman's son, and he himself a gentleman, working as a boy, scraping masts, and——"
"Scraping fiddlesticks," cried honest old Cawdor. "Why, lad alive, I begun life just like that, and look at me now."
"Well," said Fred, "I am looking, but I can only see the point of your old cigar."
"You young rascal, you!" The captain gave Fred a kindly slap. "Do you feel me then? But heave round with that yarn of yours. Didn't your friend write?"
"Just once to Toddie from Demerara, but he gave no address, and didn't even tell her the name of his ship. Well now, sir, he and I have both been at sea for nearly four years," continued Fred.
"Yes, boy, it's going on that way."
"I've been twice home, and I've passed for mate, though Frank has made no sign. But now in my dream I saw him as plainly as I see you."
"What!"
"I don't mean that, because I can't see you, but I saw Frank Fielding coming smiling towards me and holding out his hand."