“But you have not yet told us where it is that they are going to send you,” said Mrs Wright.
“Ah! that’s not fixed,” replied Sam; “they are laying down lines in Turkey; and Egypt is talked of, and telegraph to India itself is even hinted at. All I know is that we shall be sent to the East somewhere.”
“Bah! boo! Why does nobody ask for my opinion on the matter?” said uncle Rik, as he gazed at the company over a goose drumstick, which was obviously not tender.
“Your opinion, brother,” said Mr Wright, “is so valuable, that no doubt your nephew has been keeping it to the last as a sort of tit-bit—eh, Robin?”
“Well, uncle; come, let us have it,” said Robin.
“You don’t deserve it,” returned Rik, with a wrench at the drumstick, “but you shall have it all the same, free, gratis. Was this bird fed on gutta-percha shavings, sister Nan?”
“Perhaps—or on violin strings, I’m not sure which,” replied Mrs Wright blandly.
“Well,” continued the captain, “you youngsters will go off, I see, right or wrong, and you’ll get half-drowned in the sea, roasted in the East, smothered in the desert, eaten alive by cannibals, used-up by the plague, poisoned by serpents, and tee-totally ruined altogether. Then you’ll come home with the skin of your teeth on—nothing more.”
“I sincerely hope it will be summer at the time,” said Sam, laughing; “but we are grateful to you for prophesying that we shall return, even though in such light clothing.”
“That’s what’ll happen,” continued the captain, regarding the other drumstick with some hesitation; “you may take the word of an old salt for it. I’ve lived in the good old times, lads, and I know that all these new-fangled notions are goin’ to burst up—and that’s what’ll come of it.”