“Then send me to sea, father, and make a sailor of me,” returned Jack, with undisturbed good humour.
But this startled the parson. He liked Jack, and he had a horror of the sea. “Not that, Jack, my boy. Anything but that.”
“I’m not sure but I should like the sea better than farming,” went on Jack, the idea full in his head. “Aunt Dean lent me ‘Peter Simple’ one day. I know I should make a first-rate sailor.”
“Jack, don’t talk so. Your poor mother would not have liked it, and I don’t like it; and I shall never let you go.”
“Some fellows run away to sea,” said Jack, laughing.
The parson felt as though a bucket of cold water had been thrown down his back. Did Jack mean that as a threat?
“John,” said he, in as solemn a way as he had ever spoken, “disobedience to parents sometimes brings a curse with it. You must promise me that you will never go to sea.”
“I’ll not promise that, off-hand,” said Jack. “But I will promise never to go without your consent. Think it well over, father; there’s no hurry.”
It was on the tip of Mr. Lewis’s tongue to withdraw his objection to the farming scheme then and there: in comparison with the other it looked quite fair and bright. But he thought he might compromise his judgment to yield thus instantly: and, as easy Jack said, there was no hurry.