"Ah, Tom, I am glad to see you," replied the patient, as he extended his thin hand, which the boatswain eagerly seized, though he handled it as tenderly as a bashful youth does the hand of the maiden he loves. "It does my eyes good to look upon you, Tom."
"Jack, I've been dying to see you. They told me you were in a bad way, and might slip your cable any moment."
"I have not expected to live, until a week ago."
"God bless you, Jack! I was never so happy in my life;" and the boatswain actually wept,—great, strong, weather-stained veteran as he was, who had breasted the storms of four and thirty years on the ocean.
"I know how you feel, Tom."
"So you may, Jack,—I beg pardon, Mr.—"
"Call me Jack, now," interposed Somers, with a faint smile; "it sounds like old times. You have been the making of me, Tom, and we won't stand on ceremony, as long as we are not on board the ship."
The boatswain still held the attenuated hand of his sick friend, and they talked of the past and of the present; of the battle, and of the subsequent events in the bay. But Tom Longstone seemed to be thinking all the time of something else.
"What have you got on, Tom?" asked Somers, as he noticed a "foul anchor" on his shoulder, and a band of gold lace on his sleeve.
"What have I got on? Why, I always wear my colors, of course," replied Tom, with a smile of the deepest satisfaction.