O’Rook nodded impressively. “Moreover,” he said, “she’s tuk me as a poor beggar with nothin’ but his pay, for better and for worse, an’, sure now, it’s better I’ll be than she tuk me for.”
The captain was interrupted in his congratulations of the mate by another knock at the door. He opened it, and next moment was seized round the neck by a tall, graceful, beautiful, exquisite—oh! reader, you know who we mean.
“Why didn’t you come up to time, old girl?” demanded the captain, while O’Rook looked on in admiration.
“Oh, father,” gasped Polly, “don’t crush me so and I’ll tell you.”
When she had explained that delay in the train had caused her want of punctuality, she shook hands with O’Rook, with whom she had renewed acquaintance at the time of his being appointed first mate to her father’s ship. Then she was bid stand up in a corner to be “overhauled.” The captain retired to an opposite corner, and gazed at his daughter critically, as though she had been a fine portrait.
“Yes, Polly, you’ll do,” he said, while an approving smile wrinkled his vast countenance. “Fit for a queen any day. A lady—ha! ha! Have you done your duty to Aunt Maria, Polly, eh? Have you made a lady of her, eh? Have you infused into her something allied to the angelic, eh? Come, now, a rousing nor’-wester!”
With a laugh worthy of her girlhood, Polly ran out of her corner and obeyed orders.
“Now, my pet” said the captain, seating her on his knee, “here are some kickshaws from foreign parts for you; but before letting you look at ’em, I must explain why I asked you to meet me here instead of going to see you as usual in London. The fact is, I had bin longing to take you with me my next voyage, and it would have been handier to have you by me here when we’re getting ready for sea, but—but, the fact is, things have taken a sudden turn, and—and—in short, circumstances have come about that I can’t speak of just now; only I’m not quite so sure about going to sea as I was an hour ago. But you don’t seem to jump at the notion, Polly. Surely you’d have liked to go—wouldn’t you?”
“Liked, father, of course. I should have been overjoyed to have gone with you, but—but—the truth is,” she said, with a little laugh and a glance at O’Rook, “circumstances have come about that I can’t speak of just now.”
“Well, my pet,” rejoined the captain, with a puzzled, anxious look, “we’ll not talk about ’em. Now, you must know that I’ve got up a small party to meet you here to-night, and expect you to do me credit. The pastry-cook next door has undertaken to send in cakes, and tea, and hot sausages, and buns, at a moment’s notice. I expect his man here every minute to lay out the spread. Now, who d’ee think are coming? You’ll never guess. There’s Mr and Mrs John Jack, the father and mother of Edwin Jack—you remember him, Polly? Philosopher Jack we used to call him.”