“Have you anything further to say?” asked Mr Denham, observing that the youth stood looking perplexedly at the ground, and twirling his watch-key.
“Yes, uncle, I have,” answered Guy, plucking up courage. “The fact is—that, is to say—you know that wrecks are very common off the coast of Kent.”
“Certainly, I do,” said Denham with a frown. “I have bitter cause to know that. The loss occasioned by the wreck of the ‘Sea-gull’ last winter was very severe indeed. The subject is not a pleasant one; have you any good reason for alluding to it?”
“I have, uncle; as you say, the loss of the ‘Sea-gull’ was severe, for, besides the loss of a fine vessel and a rich cargo, there was the infinitely more terrible loss of the lives of twenty-two human beings.”
As Mr Denham had not happened to think of the loss of life that occurred on the occasion, and had referred solely to the loss of ship and cargo, which, by a flagrant oversight on the part of one of his clerks, had not been insured; he made no rejoinder, and Guy, after a moment’s pause, went on—
“The effect of this calamity was so powerful on the minds of the people of Deal and Walmer, near which the wreck took place, that a public meeting was called, and a proposal made that a lifeboat should be established there.”
“Well?” said Mr Denham.
“Well,” continued the youth, “my mother gave a subscription; but being poor she could not give much.”
“Well, well,” said Mr Denham impatiently.
“And—and I gave a little, a very little, towards it too,” said Guy.