“I should like to know something about you, my lad,” said the officer, as he mounted his horse, in a tone which was as kind as were his looks.
“Yes, sir,” answered Bill, pulling a lock of his long, shaggy hair; “I be called Bill Sunnyside, and mother sells apples out at the corner of High Street, there.”
“A succinct account of yourself, my lad,” said the officer.
“It be true though, sir,” said Bill, not understanding what succinct meant. “And, sir, I’d like to go to sea with you.”
“Oh! Would you?” said the officer, smiling. “But how do you know that I command a ship?”
“Because you would not otherwise be in uniform,” answered Bill, promptly.
“Ay, I see you have your wits about you,” remarked the officer.
“It’s as well I should, for they be the only things I have got except these duds,” answered Bill, giving way to a propensity for humour, which, unknown to himself, he possessed, though he spoke with perfect respect.
The officer laughed, and said—
“Where is your father, boy?”