As the answering “Ay ay, sir,” came sadly down from aloft, I felt a touch on my arm, and, turning round, found my second acquaintance, Lord Tomnoddy, by my side. As I looked at him I felt strongly inclined to ask him whether he also had changed his name since our last meeting.
“Oh, look here, Hawksbill,” he commenced, “I’m glad you’ve come on board; I wanted to see you in order that I might repay you the sovereign you lent us the other day. Here it is,”—selecting the coin from a handful which he pulled out of his breeches pocket and thrusting it into my hand—“and I am very much obliged to you for the loan. I really hadn’t a farthing in my pocket at the time, or I wouldn’t have allowed Tomkins to borrow it from you—and it was awfully stupid of me to let you go away without saying where I could send it to you.”
“Pray do not say anything further about it, Mr —, Mr —.”
“I am Lord Southdown, at your service—not Lord Tomnoddy, as my whimsical friend Tomkins dubbed me the other day. It is perfectly true,” he added somewhat haughtily, and then with a smile resumed: “but I suppose I must not take offence at your look of incredulity, seeing that I was a consenting party to that awful piece of deception which Tomkins played off upon you. Ha, ha, ha! excuse me, but I really wish you could have seen yourself when that mischievous friend of mine accused you of—of—what was it? Oh, yes, of playing fast and loose with the affections of the fictitious Lady Sara, or whatever the fellow called her. And then again, when he remarked upon your extraordinary resemblance to Lord—Somebody—another fictitious friend of his, and directed attention to your ‘lofty intellectual forehead, your proud eagle-glance, your—’ oh, dear! it was too much.”
And off went his lordship into another paroxysm of laughter, which sent the tears coursing down his cheeks and caused me to flush most painfully with mortification.
“Upon my word, Hawksbill—” he commenced.
“My name is Hawkesley, my lord, at your service,” I interrupted, somewhat angrily I am afraid.
“I beg your pardon, Mr Hawkesley; the mistake was a perfectly genuine and unintentional one, I assure you. I was going to apologise—as I do, most heartily, for laughing at you in this very impertinent fashion. But, my dear fellow, let me advise you as a friend to overcome your very conspicuous vanity. I am, perhaps, taking a most unwarrantable liberty in presuming to offer you advice on so delicate a subject, or, indeed, in alluding to it at all; but, to tell you the truth, I have taken rather a liking for you in spite of—ah—ahem—that is—I mean that you struck me as being a first-rate fellow notwithstanding the little failing at which I have hinted. You are quite good enough every way to pass muster without the necessity for any attempt to clothe yourself with fictitious attributes of any kind. Of course, in the ordinary run of events you will soon be laughed out of your weakness—there is no place equal to a man-of-war for the speedy cure of that sort of thing—but the process is often a very painful one to the patient—I have passed through it myself, so I can speak from experience—so very painful was it to me that, even at the risk of being considered impertinent, I have ventured to give you a friendly caution, in the hope that your good sense will enable you to profit by it, and so save you many a bitter mortification. Now I hope I have not offended you?”
“By no means, my lord,” I replied, grasping his proffered hand. “On the contrary, I am very sincerely obliged to you—”
At this moment the first lieutenant of the Saint George reappeared on deck, and coming up to me with Mr Austin’s letter open in his hand, said: