“It’s like this,” remarked Mr. Perkins, as we rolled away from the tavern, “this man belonged to my old partner, Cap’n Steele, an’ stuck to his ship ’til she went down. Also he’s put himself out to come here an’ tell us the news, and it ain’t every sailor as’ll take the trouble to do such a job. Therefore, Ned Britton bein’ at present without a ship, I’ve asked him to take a berth aboard the ‘Flipper.’”
“That was kind of you, Uncle,” I said, pleased at this evidence of my relative’s kindly nature.
“An honest sailor ain’t to be sneezed at,” continued Uncle Naboth, with one of his quaint winks. “If Ned Britton were faithful to the ‘Saracen’ he’ll be faithful to the ‘Flipper.’ An’ that’s the sort o’ man we want.”
Britton doubtless overheard every word of this eulogy, but he gazed stolidly ahead and paid no attention to my uncle’s words of praise.
We reached the railway station in ample time for the train, and soon were whirling away on our long journey into the golden West.
No incident worthy of note occurred on our way across the continent, although I might record a bit of diplomacy on the part of Uncle Naboth that illustrates the peculiar shrewdness I have always found coupled with his native simplicity.
Just before our train drew into Chicago, where we were to change cars and spend the best part of a day, my uncle slipped into my hand a long, fat pocket-book, saying:
“Hide that in your pocket, Sam, and button it up tight.”
“What’s your idea, Uncle Nabe?” I asked.
“Why, we’re comin’ to the wickedest city in all the world, accordin’ to the preachers; an’ if it ain’t that, it’s bad enough, in all conscience. There’s robbers an’ hold-up men by the thousands, an’ if one of ’em got hold of me I’d be busted in half a second. But none of ’em would think of holdin’ up a boy like you; so the money’s safe in your pocket, if you don’t go an’ lose it.”