“I wish that I only knew where the tree that they grow on is to be found,” said Tom, ruefully.
“So you shall, my hearty. And do you want me to tell you where it is?”
“Yes.”
“Tom, you’re a loon!”
“Why so? Because I want to know where the tree grows where gold eagles may be had for the picking?”
“You were at the place this very blessed morning, and might have gathered a pocketful of the bright boys if you hadn’t run before a little wind as though it was a hurricane.”
“What do you mean?” said Tom, though he half knew without the asking.
“That I’ll tell you—here, you, bring me a glass of hot brandy and water; will you splice, Tom?”
“Not I.”
“I bring to mind that you were always called the Quaker aboard ship, and the name fits you well. You will neither fight nor drink, without you have to.”