They informed the old gentleman, likewise, that this loved aunt of theirs came up to town every year regularly at Christmas-time to pay them a visit; although they, on their part, had never been able to go down to see her until now, something or other having always happened to prevent their proceeding to the sea.
“Well, better late than never,” said their fellow-traveller, whom Bob and Nellie began to look upon now quite as an old acquaintance—“I’ve no doubt you’ll enjoy yourselves. But, my dears, you haven’t mentioned your aunt’s name—her surname, I mean. Perhaps I might know her, for I’m an old resident of Portsmouth, or rather Southsea, which is just outside the lines and where all the best people live now.”
“Mrs Gilmour, sir,” replied Nellie. “That’s aunt Polly’s name.”
“What, Polly Gilmour, the widow of my old shipmate Ted Gilmour, who commanded the Bucephalus on the West Coast for two commissions and died of fever in the Bight of Benin? Bless my soul, who’d have thought it!”
“Yes, sir, Uncle Gilmour was in the Navy,” put in Bob as if to corroborate the surmise of the old gentleman. “He was Captain Gilmour, sir.”
His questioner, though, appeared for the moment lost in thought, his mind evidently occupied with a flood of old memories connected with his lost friend and their life afloat together.
“Dear, dear, who’d have thought it!” he repeated, as if speaking to himself. Then, presently, recovering his composure with an effort, aided by another pinch of snuff, he said aloud—“And so, you two children are poor Ted Gilmour’s niece and nephew, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Bob and Nellie in one breath, answering the question. “You just ask auntie and see what she says, sir.”
“I’m very glad to hear it,” said the old gentleman, hastily pulling Nellie towards him and giving her a kiss, much to her astonishment, the action was so sudden; while he next proceeded to shake Bob by the hand until his arm ached. “I am very glad, very glad indeed to meet you; and, if it be any satisfaction to know, I may tell you that I go round to your aunt Polly’s every evening to have a game of cribbage, summer and winter alike, except those three weeks when she goes to London to stop with your father, whose name, of course, I recollect now, although I did not think of that when you told it me awhile ago—”
“Then, you’re Captain Dresser?” interrupted Bob at this point, anxious to show that he had heard the old gentleman’s name before and recognised it. “I’m sure you’re Captain Dresser, sir.”