"It's a wondah dat wreck aint busted up long ago," put in Old Ben.
"It's a wonder the poor people around here haven't carried off the wreckage for firewood, Ben," said Jack.
"Da is afraid to do dat, Massah Jack—afraid some ob de sailors wot was drowned might haunt 'em."
"I see. Well, I don't think the wreck will last much longer," and with these words Jack turned away to follow Marion to the plantation mansion, to interview his foster mother concerning the particulars of the past. Little did the lad dream of what an important part that old wreck was to play in his future life.
OLD BEN HAS A VISITOR.
St. John Ruthven was a young man of twenty-five, tall, thin, and with a face that was a mixture of craftiness and cowardice. He was the son of a half-brother to the late Colonel Ruthven and could boast of but few of the good traits of Marion's family. He lived on a plantation half a mile from the bay and spent most of his time in attention to his personal appearance and in horseback riding, of which, like many other Southerners, he was passionately fond.
It was commonly supposed that St. John Ruthven was rich, but this was not true. His father had left him a good plantation and some money in the bank, but the young planter was a spendthrift and his mother, who doted on her son, was little better, and soon nearly every dollar which had been left by the husband and father had slipped through their fingers. More than this, St. John took but little interest in the plantation, which gradually ran down until it became almost worthless.
"St. John, my dear, we must do something," the mother would say, in her helpless way. "We cannot live like this forever."
"What shall I do?" would be the son's reply. "The plantation isn't worth working and I have no money with which to buy another place. The niggers are getting so they are not worth their keep."