“What a jolly little place!” I exclaimed.
“Yes,” he replied, with pardonable pride, “I set my heart on the little cabin years ago—afore I left the navy—and I used to save up my pay and prize money, so as to buy it in time. I meant it for mother, but she died before I could manage it; and then I bought it for myself, thinking that Jane and I would live here until we should be summoned for the watch on deck above, and that arter our time Teddy, my nephew, Jane’s only boy, would have it. But, not long arter we settled down comfably, poor Teddy caught a fever, which carried him off; and Jane and I have gone on alone, ever since, with only our two selves.”
“You must miss your nephew Teddy,” I said, sympathisingly, seeing a grave look on his face.
“Yes, laddie, I did miss him very much, but now, my cockbird,” and here his face brightened up with another beaming smile, as he laid a meaning emphasis on his words, “but now I fancy, somehow or other, I’ll not miss Teddy as much as I used to; d’ye know why?”
“No,” I said, hesitatingly, and somewhat untruthfully, for I pretty well guessed what he meant.
“Then I’ll tell you,” he continued, with much feeling and heartiness of expression, “I’ve christened this here anchorage o’ mine, ‘Old Calabar,’ in mem’ry o’ the West Coast, where I sarved under your father in the Swallow, as I told you just now; and, Master Leigh, as his son, I hope you’ll always consider the little shanty as your home, free to come and go or stay, just as you choose, and ever open to you with a welcome the same as now?”
What could I say to this?
Why, nothing.
I declare that I couldn’t have uttered a word then to have saved my life.
But he did not want any thanks.