“There was an old man who lived under a hill,
     And if he’s not dead, he lives there still.”

“So much for motherly love!  Dang it, what’s her heart made of?” said a voice.  I turned round; it was old Ben, who had been an unobserved spectator of the scene.

CHAPTER TEN

     In which I narrate what I consider the most fortunate Incident in
     my Life; and Ben the Whaler confides to me a very strange History

Among the pensioners there was one with whom I must make the reader acquainted, as he will be an important person in this narrative.  His name was Peter Anderson, a north countryman, I believe, from Greenock; he had been gunner’s mate in the service for many years, and, having been severely wounded in an action, he had been sent to Greenwich.  He was a boatswain in Greenwich Hospital; that is, he had charge of a ward of twenty-five men, and Ben the Whaler had lately been appointed one of the boatswain’s mates under him.  He was a very good scholar, and had read a great deal.  You could hardly put any question to him, but you would get from him a satisfactory sort of an answer; and he was generally referred to in all points of dispute, especially in matters connected with the service, which he had at his fingers’ ends; and, moreover, he was a very religious good man.  I never heard him swear, but correct all those who did so in his presence.  He had saved some money in the service, the interest of which, with his allowances as boatswain, enabled him to obtain many little comforts, and to be generous to others.  Before Ben was shifted over to Anderson’s ward, which he was when he was appointed boatswain’s mate under him, they had not been well acquainted; but, since that time, they were almost always together; so that now I knew Anderson, which I did not before, except by sight.  He was a very venerable looking old man, with gray locks curling down on his shoulders, but very stout and hearty; and, as Ben had told him all about me, he took notice of me, and appeared also to take an interest.  When I came back, after the providential escape I have mentioned in the last chapter, Ben had narrated to him the conduct of my mother; and a day or two afterward, when the frost had broken up, and they were both sitting down, basking in the sun, which was shining bright, I went up to them.

“Well, Jack,” said old Ben, “are you ready for another trip down the river?”

“I hope I shall earn my sixpence at an easier rate, if I do go,” replied I.

“It was wonderful that you were saved, boy,” said Peter Anderson, “and you ought to very thankful to the Omniscient.”

I stared; for I had never heard that term applied to the Diety.

“You mean God, don’t you?” said I, at last; for I thought he couldn’t mean any other.

“Yes, boy; has not your mother taught you that name?”

“She never would teach me anything.  All the prayers I know I have stolen from my sister.”