“But this is what I cannot understand the least,” said James.  “My daughter was placed into the charge of some responsible persons, whose names I have forgot.”

“Gebbie was the name,” said I; “and there is no doubt that Mr. Gebbie should have gone ashore with her at Helvoet.  But he did not, Mr. Drummond; and I think you might praise God that I was there to offer in his place.”

“I shall have a word to say to Mr. Gebbie before done,” said he.  “As for yourself, I think it might have occurred that you were somewhat young for such a post.”

“But the choice was not between me and somebody else, it was between me and nobody,” I cried.  “Nobody offered in my place, and I must say I think you show a very small degree of gratitude to me that did.”

“I shall wait until I understand my obligation a little more in the particular,” says he.

“Indeed, and I think it stares you in the face, then,” said I.  “Your child was deserted, she was clean flung away in the midst of Europe, with scarce two shillings, and not two words of any language spoken there:  I must say, a bonny business!  I brought her to this place.  I gave her the name and the tenderness due to a sister.  All this has not gone without expense, but that I scarce need to hint at.  They were services due to the young lady’s character which I respect; and I think it would be a bonny business too, if I was to be singing her praises to her father.”

“You are a young man,” he began.

“So I hear you tell me,” said I, with a good deal of heat.

“You are a very young man,” he repeated, “or you would have understood the significancy of the step.”

“I think you speak very much at your ease,” cried I.  “What else was I to do?  It is a fact I might have hired some decent, poor woman to be a third to us, and I declare I never thought of it until this moment!  But where was I to find her, that am a foreigner myself?  And let me point out to your observation, Mr. Drummond, that it would have cost me money out of my pocket.  For here is just what it comes to, that I had to pay through the nose for your neglect; and there is only the one story to it, just that you were so unloving and so careless as to have lost your daughter.”

“He that lives in a glass house should not be casting stones,” says he; “and we will finish inquiring into the behaviour of Miss Drummond, before we go on to sit in judgment on her father.”

“But I will be entrapped into no such attitude,” said I.  “The character of Miss Drummond is far above inquiry, as her father ought to know.  So is mine, and I am telling you that.  There are but the two ways of it open.  The one is to express your thanks to me as one gentleman to another, and to say no more.  The other (if you are so difficult as to be still dissatisfied) is to pay me that which I have expended and be done.”

He seemed to soothe me with a hand in the air.