"I did, an hour ago."
"An' did you kind o' explanify things to the old gal?"
"How could I tell her, Bill? Didn't she always say I would come to no good end? I wrote her that I was going away—a long way off—and for a long time. I couldn't say just how long. A year or two perhaps. My head was all topsy-turvy, anyhow."
"You didn't forgit she took keer on ye when ye war a kid?"
"I sent her the check I got from the store, right away."
"Then I don't see nothin' to—hender us from takin' that 'ar little cruise we was a-talkin' about."
It was pitch-dark when our two adventurers stepped out of the caboose. After securing the door with a stout padlock, Bill silently led the way to the stairs where he kept his wherry. Noiselessly the boat was rowed out of the dock, toward a light that glimmered in the rigging of an outward-bound brig that lay out in the stream waiting for the turning of the tide. Bill did not speak again until they were clear of the dock. "Yon brig's bound for York. I know the old man first-rate, 'cause I helped load her. He'll give us a berth if we take holt with the crew. Here we are." As he climbed the brig's side he set the wherry adrift with a vigorous shove of his foot.
A day or two after the events just described, Mr. Bright and the marshal met on the street, the former looking sober and downcast, the latter smiling and elate. "What did I tell you?" cried the marshal, evidently well pleased with the tenor of the news he had to relate; "your protégé has gone off with an old wharf rat that I've had my eye on for some time."
"To tell you the whole truth, marshal, my mind is not quite easy about that boy," the merchant replied.