"It will be difficult to be a hero—very difficult," he said at length with a heavy sigh.
Then the gallant soldier, who was his father, sighed too.
It was not heroic—it was only a simple duty to send his little son so far from him, and yet how hard a thing it was.
There was nothing that Jeff liked better on the big steamer than going "forrard" to the men's quarters. He would sit huddled up on a sea-chest, with his elbows resting on his knees, or would climb into an empty hammock and remain for hours, listening to the wonderful tales told him by the crew.
"Captain Clark, I really don't think it possibly can all be true—those stories the men tell, I mean. They must be quite heroes."
The little boy's brown eyes were round and stretched in amazement. The captain did not take long to draw from him some of the marvellous narratives and chapters of accidents that had been told to him.
"No, my little fellow, I don't think much of it is true either. We allow sailors to spin yarns and only believe as much as we like." Jeff was much better satisfied to feel that a hero was not an impossible being, and that these rough and ready, hard swearing, rollicking men were not in reality the stuff out of which was moulded true heroism, endurance, and nobility. He took comfort now in laughing at their "make believe" tales of miracles and chivalry.
At last the voyage, which had been all pleasantness to Jeff, came to an end, and he felt very sorry to think of parting with so many kind friends.
On a fine April morning, with a deep blue sky and an easterly wind, the great steamer went up the Thames and was berthed in her dock. Naturally there was a great deal of stir and much excitement amongst the passengers, many of whom had not been home to their native country for long years. Most of the travellers had friends to meet them and were anxiously on the look-out. Those who had not were attending to their luggage. Very few were passive spectators of the busy scene. Jeff was greatly amused by all the bustle and agitation. He might have been even more so had he not felt so cold. The April winds blew very keenly on his sensitive little frame, unseasoned to such a piercing air. Still he tried to see all he could; it was novel and amusing, and he would write a long letter to mother to-night and should like to tell her all about it. She must know all these things of course, but then she might have forgotten.
"Well, my little man, and what do you think of London town?" said Captain Clark approaching Jeff and waving his hand towards a distant cloud of smoke.