Larry McGee took off his hat right away.
"Wuz that so indade, yer honor? Wuz it for that ye got the goold shtar ye're wearin'?"
"Star? No, indeed. I got a pension, but I didn't get any star."
"But it's a foine one."
So it was, and it was fastened by a strong, wide blue ribbon to the old man's left breast. It looked like solid gold, and it was curiously lettered and ornamented.
"I'm proud of that, my man. And I got it that day too."
"How was it?" asked Rob, who had dropped his four-masted ship to listen.
"How was it? I'll tell you, my boy. It was Farragut himself. He was the best sailor ever trod a plank, and he hated steam and iron pots to the day of his death. He came to see me and the rest, in hospital, like the true sailor he was, and he'd a good word all around. I'd been one of the crew of his own gig, and before he went he put his hand in his pocket, and seemed to be feeling for something. Belike his hand had been in that pocket pretty often, those days, for it looked as if he couldn't find a thing. When it came out, though, it had a piece of gold in it. An old Spanish doubloon he'd carried for a pocketpiece—"
"That's a gold coin?" asked Rob.
"The biggest there is, except a double-eagle, only there's not many of 'em nowadays. And says he to me, says he: 'Good-bye, Jack Peabody. Most likely I'll never see you again. Keep that to remember me by. I don't think you'll forget the old ship, nor Mobile Bay.'"