Yancy closed his eyes, and presently, lulled by the soft ripple that bore them company, fell into a restful sleep.
“When he told us of his nevvy, Dick, and I got to thinkin' of his bein' just the age of our Richard, I declare it seemed like something got in my throat and I'd choke. Do you reckon he'll ever find him?” said Polly, as she busied herself with preparations for their breakfast.
“I hope so, Polly!” said Cavendish, but her words were a powerful assault on his feelings, which at all times lay close to the surface and were easily stirred.
Under stress of his emotions, he now enjoined silence on his family, fortifying the injunction with dire threats as to the consequences that would descend with lightning—like suddenness on the head of the unlucky sinner who forgot and raised his voice above a whisper. Then he despatched a chicken; sure sign that he and Polly considered their guest had reached the first stage of convalescence.
CHAPTER XVIII. AN ORPHAN MAN OF TITLE
The raft drifted on into the day's heat; and when at last Yancy awoke, it was to find Henry and Keppel seated beside him, each solacing him with a small moist hand, while they regarded him out of the serious unblinking eyes of childhood.
“Howdy!” said he, smiling up at them.
“Howdy!” they answered, a sociable grin puckering their freckled faces.
“Do you find yo'self pretty well, sir?” inquired Keppel.