Part 50 (1/2)

”Buy a song, young woman, to sing to your sweetheart, while you sit on his knee in the dog-watch--

”But duty appeased, 'tis the heart of a lamb.”

I believe there are few people who do not take a strong interest in the English sailor, particularly in one who has been maimed in the defence of his country. I always have; and as I heard the poor disabled fellow bawling out his ditty, certainly not with a very remarkable voice or execution, I pulled out the drawer behind the counter, and took out some halfpence to give him. When I caught his eye I beckoned to him, and he entered the shop. ”Here, my good fellow,” said I, ”although a man of peace myself, yet I feel for those who suffer in the wars;” and I put the money to him.

”May your honour never know a banyan day,” replied the sailor; ”and a sickly season for you, into the bargain.”

”Nay, friend, that is not a kind wish to others,” replied I.

The sailor fixed his eyes earnestly upon me, as if in astonishment, for, until I had answered, he had not looked at me particularly.

”What are you looking at?” said I.

”Good heavens!” exclaimed he. ”It is--yet it cannot be!”

”Cannot be! what, friend?”

He ran out of the door, and read the name over the shop, and then came in, and sank upon a chair outside of the counter. ”j.a.phet--I have found you at last!” exclaimed he, faintly.

”Good heaven! who are you?”

He threw off his hat, with false ringlets fastened to the inside of it, and I beheld _Timothy_. In a moment I sprang over the counter, and was in his arms. ”Is it possible,” exclaimed I, after a short silence on both sides, ”that I find you a disabled sailor?”

”Is it possible, j.a.phet,” replied Timothy, ”that I find you a broad-brimmed Quaker?”

”Even so, Timothy. I am really and truly one.”

”Then you are less disguised than I am,” replied Timothy, kicking off his wooden leg, and letting down his own, which had been tied up to his thigh, and concealed in his wide blue trowsers. ”I am no more a sailor than you are, j.a.phet, and since you left me have never yet seen the salt water, which I talk and sing so much about.”

”Then thou hast been deceiving, Timothy, which I regret much.”

”Now I do perceive that you are a Quaker,” replied Tim; ”but do not blame me until you have heard my story. Thank G.o.d, I have found you at last. But tell me, j.a.phet, you will not send me away--will you? If your dress is changed, you heart is not. Pray answer me, before I say anything more. You know I can be useful here.”

”Indeed, Timothy, I have often wished for you since I have been here, and it will be your own fault if I part with you. You shall a.s.sist me in the shop; but you must dress like me.”

”Dress like you! have I not always dressed like you? When we started from Cophagus's, were we not dressed much alike? did we not wear spangled jackets together? did I not wear your livery, and belong to you? I'll put on anything, j.a.phet--but we must not part again.”

”My dear Timothy, I trust we shall not; but I expect my a.s.sistant here soon, and do not wish that he should see you in that garb. Go to a small public-house at the farther end of this street, and when you see me pa.s.s, come out to me, and we will walk out into the country, and consult together.”

”I have put up at a small house not far off, and have some clothes there; I will alter my dress and meet you. G.o.d bless you, j.a.phet.”

Timothy then picked up his ballads, which were scattered on the floor, put up his leg, and putting on his wooden stump, hastened away, after once more silently pressing my hand.

In half an hour my a.s.sistant returned, and I desired him to remain in the shop, as I was going out on business. I then walked to the appointed rendezvous, and was soon joined by Tim, who had discarded his sailor's disguise, and was in what is called a shabby-genteel sort of dress. After the first renewed greeting, I requested Tim to let me know what had occurred to him since our separation.

”You cannot imagine, j.a.phet, what my feelings were when I found, by your note, that you had left me. I had perceived how unhappy you had been for a long while, and I was equally distressed, although I knew not the cause. I had no idea until I got your letter, that you had lost all your money; and I felt it more unkind of you to leave me then, than if you had been comfortable and independent. As for looking after you, that I knew would be useless; and I immediately went to Mr Masterton, to take his advice as to how I should proceed. Mr Masterton had received your letter, and appeared to be very much annoyed. 'Very foolish boy,' said he; 'but there is nothing that can be done now. He is mad, and that is all that can be said in his excuse. You must do as he tells you, I suppose, and try the best for yourself. I will help you in any way that I can, my poor fellow,' said he, 'so don't cry.' I went back to the house and collected together your papers, which I sealed up.

I knew that the house was to be given up in a few days. I sold the furniture, and made the best I could of the remainder of your wardrobe, and other things of value that you had left; indeed, everything, with the exception of the dressing-case and pistols, which had belonged to Major Carbonnell, and I thought you might perhaps some day like to have them.”

”How very kind of you, Timothy, to think of me in that way! I shall indeed be glad; but no--what have I to do with pistols or silver dressing-cases now? I must not have them, but still I thank you all the same.”

”The furniture and everything else fetched 430 pounds, after all expenses were paid.”