“Ship ‘Emu,’ somewhere off Cape Horn.
“My dear Father,—I didn’t intend to run away, but tumbled down into the hold and was carried off. When I came to myself I found that I was at sea, and could not get out of my prison. I lived there for I don’t know how many days, till, when almost dead, I was released. I have been treated worse than a dog ever since by the captain, officers, and men. He’s a terrible tyrant and brute, and if it had not been for Mark Riddle—whom, wonderful to say, I found on board the ship—he and his mates would have been knocked on the head and hove overboard.
“I would much rather be seated on the high stool in Mr Butterfield’s office than where I am. I wanted to return home, but the captain wouldn’t let me. I intend, however, to run on the first opportunity, and to get back if I can. I tried to get away in the Falkland Islands, but was prevented. Mark succeeded, and was left behind. Whether he’ll manage to live there I don’t know, but I hope he will, and get back to Sandgate one of these days, I have no time to write more; so with love to mother, and my brothers and sisters, and even to Aunt Deb—
“I remain your affectionate son—
“Richard Cheveley.”
“PS—Please tell old Riddle all about his son.”
I hurriedly folded this letter, and addressed it to the Reverend John Cheveley, Sandgate, England; and having no wax, I sealed it with a piece of pitch which I hooked out of a seam in the deck. I rushed out, intending to give it into the hands of the captain of the whaler; but what was my dismay to see his boat pulling away from the ship. I shouted and waved my letter, thinking that he would return; but at that moment the third mate snatched the letter out of my hand, and waved to the men in the boat to pull on. I turned round, endeavouring to recover the letter, but instead got a box on the ear. I made another snatch at it.
“What’s this about, you young rascal?” shouted the captain; “give me the letter, Simmons. You’ll try next to take it out of my hands, I suppose.”
In spite of all my efforts to regain it, the mate handed the letter to the captain, who, looking at the superscription, at once tore it open. He glanced at the commencement and end.
“So you pretend to be a gentleman’s son, you young scapegrace,” he exclaimed. “You’ll not get me to believe such a tale. Why, bless my heart, the last voyage I had a fellow who was always writing to the Earl of Lollipop, and signing himself his son. The men called him My Lord. He was made to black down the rigging, notwithstanding, and polish up the pots and pans. He was found at last to be a chimney-sweeper’s son.”