Mrs Wyllys gave her pupil an expressive sign to compose her features, while she herself resumed her usual, pensive air, with a calmness of mien that might have deceived one far more practised than the boy, who now came slowly into the cabin. Gertrude buried her face in a part of her attire, while the former addressed the individual who had just entered in a tone equally divided between kindness and concern.
“Roderick, child,” she commenced, “your eyelids are getting heavy. This service of a ship must be new to you?”
“It is so old as to keep me from sleeping on my watch,” coldly returned the boy.
“A careful mother would be better for one of your years, than the school of the boatswain. What is your age, Roderick?”
“I have seen years enough to be both wiser and better,” he answered, not without a shade of thought settling on his brow. “Another month will make me twenty.”
“Twenty! you trifle with my curiosity, urchin.”
“Did I say twenty, Madam! Fifteen would be nearer to the truth.”
“I believe you well. And how many of those years have you passed upon the water?”
“But two, in truth; though I often think them ten; and yet there are times when they seem but a day!”
“You are romantic early, boy. And how like you the trade of war?”