Matthew stared, and seemed at a loss for a few seconds; but, at length, he let one stick fall, as it were mechanically, and, clasping his old friend's hand with the hearty gripe of a true sailor, cried aloud, while the fire of his youth seemed once more to gleam from his eyes,—
"What! Paul Perkins! God bless thy heart! Why, I thought—but God bless thy heart and soul, how art thou?—I thought thou hadst gone to Davy's locker ten or fifteen years ago!"
"And I little thought that ever these old eyes were again to look upon Matthew Hardcastle," replied Paul; "why, Lord save us, you must be an amazing age! I am nearly threescore and ten, but you were a man in your prime when I was but little older than a child, you know."
"Butter your shirt, sing tantara-bobus make shift!" answered jolly old Matthew; "what matters it how old one may be? We shall live till we die—kill us that dare!" And the pair of sound-hearted old tars burst into a merry laugh that came up so clearly from the well-spring of their hearts as to create a kindred merriment through the curious crowd, which had by this time begun to gather round them, in the narrow street.
"Well, but come, shipmate, this must not be a dry meeting," said Paul; "suppose we step into the Red Lion, or the Black Horse, that I see on the signs here, hard by, and wet our whistles together, once more. It may be for the last time, you know, in this world."
"Avast, heaving!" replied Matthew; "I have no objection for Molly Crabtree, here, to fetch us a jack of rum or so, and we can have it in my little berth; but my old head won't bear the racket of a public-house now, Paul."
"Well, well, have it your own way, Mat," replied the other; and the two ancient men adjourned, as fast as their stiffened limbs would permit them, to Matthew's little dwelling in the alley.
Matthew's hammock—for he could never be persuaded to sleep in a bed—was slung at one corner of the narrow room, and just under it was placed his arm-chair. He would fain have given up his usual seat, on this occasion, to his friend; but Paul Perkins had too much real and untaught courtesy to accept of it.
"No, no, keep on board your own ship, Matthew," he cried; "I won't do any such thing: sit ye down, sit ye down."