CHAPTER I.
THE CLIFFS OF OLD ENGLAND
It was an April evening; off the south coast of England. The sun had just made up his mind to struggle out from behind a particularly black shower-cloud, and give that part of the world a look before he bade it good-night.
“That is lucky,” said a little man, who was with difficulty hanging on to the bulwark netting of the H.M.S. Conway Castle; “now, Mr. Jones, look if you can’t see them in the sunlight.”
Mr. Jones accordingly looked through his glasses again.
“Yes,” he said, “I can see them distinctly.”
“See what?” asked another passenger, coming up. “The cliffs of Old England,” answered the little man, joyously.
“Oh, is that all?” said the other; “curse the cliffs of Old England!”
“Nice remark that for a man who is going home to be married, eh?” said the little man, turning to where his companion had stood.
But Mr. Jones had shut up his glasses, and vanished aft.
Presently he reached a deck-cabin, and entered without knocking.