'You
leave me alone,' was his deduction. 'When I get talking to a man, I
can get round him.'
The other stowaway, whom I will call the Devonian - it was noticeable
that neither of them told his name - had both been brought up and
seen the world in a much smaller way. His father, a confectioner,
died and was closely followed by his mother. His sisters had taken,
I think, to dressmaking. He himself had returned from sea about a
year ago and gone to live with his brother, who kept the 'George
Hotel' - 'it was not quite a real hotel,' added the candid fellow -
'and had a hired man to mind the horses.' At first the Devonian was
very welcome; but as time went on his brother not unnaturally grew
cool towards him, and he began to find himself one too many at the
'George Hotel.' 'I don't think brothers care much for you,' he said,
as a general reflection upon life. Hurt at this change, nearly
penniless, and too proud to ask for more, he set off on foot and
walked eighty miles to Weymouth, living on the journey as he could.
He would have enlisted, but he was too small for the army and too old
for the navy; and thought himself fortunate at last to find a berth
on board a trading dandy.
Pages:
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99