“Then make him his heir,” she said softly.
“Eh!—what? I don’t understand,” muttered the old gentleman.
Then Miss Stella explained. It was such an explanation as only gentle speakers like Miss Stella can make. She told about bright, brave, plucky Dan and Aunt Winnie, of the scholarship at St. Andrew’s and of the Little Sisters of the Poor. She told of the attic home over the Mulligans’ for which Aunt Winnie was “pining,” and of the dreams that Dan dreamed.
“It would seem a pity,” Miss Stella said, “for him to give up and go down.”
“By George, he must not,—he shall not!” said the old sailor. “You want me to do something for him? Out with it, my lady!”
“Yes. I want you to invest, not in diamond stars, Captain, but in Jack Farley’s medal. I was to negotiate the sale, you know.”
“Yes, yes! And you warned me you were going to fleece me; so go on,—go on! What is the boy’s—what is your price?” asked the Captain.
“A pension,” said Miss Stella, softly, “the pension you would give Jack Farley—if he were here to claim it,—just the little pension an old sailor would ask for his last watch below. It will hold the little nest under the eaves that Danny calls home for the old aunt that he loves; it will steady the young wings for their flight to the stars; it will keep the young heart brave and pure and warm as only love and home can.”
“You’re right,—you’re right,—you’re always right, dear lady! If old Jack were here, I’d pension him, as you say, and fling in a little extra for his grog and his pipe. Old Jack could have counted on me for four or five hundred a year. But a sturdy, strapping young chap like yours is worth a dozen groggy old salts. So name your figure, my lady. I have money to burn, as you say. Name your figure, dear lady, and I’ll invest in your boy.”
“Old Jack’s pension, then, Captain Carleton,—old Jack’s pension for Aunt Winnie and Dan,—old Jack’s pension, and nothing more.”