"By Jove, this is excellent!" exclaimed Tom Bartelot, lounging back in his chair, after a late dinner (for on this day the cook's fire had been washed out of the caboose); "how happy I am to have you here, Morley. Confess, old fellow, that you couldn't have fallen into better hands."
"I do confess it most willingly; but, my dear old friend, I must be set on shore, if possible, at the first opportunity. I have Hawkshaw to punish, and Ethel to save from the insult of his presence."
"On shore, with the breeze blowing thus—the Scilly Isles more than 150 miles astern, and not a sail in sight."
"But, Ethel—the Bassets—what will they think of my sudden disappearance? What story may that rascal tell them?"
"Nothing that you can't unsay by-and-bye."
"Unsay when it may be too late."
"Too late!"
"And to have Ethel left in the power, or rather, subjected to the wiles and addresses of one so cruel, so artful."
"Tut, tut, if she would slip from her moorings by the old man's side, to sail in company with a rascally pirate, she's not worth much, friend Morley, and certainly not worth regretting."
"Ethel shall judge what I have suffered, by what she is suffering herself."