She broke down at this point, and put her handkerchief to her face.
“Don’t cry, May,” began the youth in sore perplexity, for he knew not how to comfort the poor girl in the circumstances, but fortunately Captain Stride caught sight of them at the moment, and gave them a stentorian hail.
“Hi! halloo! back your to-o-o-ps’ls. I’ll overhaul ye in a jiffy.”
How long a nautical jiffy may be we know not, but, in a remarkably brief space of time, considering the shortness and thickness of his sea-legs, the Captain was alongside, blowing, as he said, “like a grampus.”
That night Charlie Brooke sat with his mother in her parlour. They were alone—their friends having considerately left them to themselves on this their first night.
They had been talking earnestly about past and present, for the son had much to learn about old friends and comrades, and the mother had much to tell.
“And now, mother,” said Charlie, at the end of a brief pause, “what about the future?”
“Surely, my boy, it is time enough to talk about that to-morrow, or next day. You are not obliged to think of the future before you have spent even one night in your old room.”
“Not absolutely obliged, mother. Nevertheless, I should like to speak about it. Poor Shank is heavy on my mind, and when I heard all about him to-day from May, I—. She’s wonderfully improved, that girl, mother. Grown quite pretty?”
“Indeed she is—and as good as she’s pretty,” returned Mrs Brooke, with a furtive glance at her son.