“And what do you know, Jack?”

“I know ‘Our Father,’ and ‘Now I lay down to sleep,’ and I believe that is all.”

“How old are you now, Jack?”

“I am three years older than Virginia; she, I heard my mother say, was six the other day—­then I suppose I’m nine.”

“Do you know your letters?”

“Yes, some of them; I learned them on the boats.”

“But you cannot read?”

“No, not a word.”

“Has your mother ever told you of the Bible?”

“Not me; but I’ve heard her tell Virginia about it.”

“Don’t you ever go to church?”

“No, never.  Mother takes little Virginia; but she says I’m too ragged and ungenteel.”

“Why does your mother neglect you?  I suppose you are a bad boy?”

“That he’s not,” interrupted Ben; “that’s not the reason.  But we must not talk about that now; only I must take Jack’s part.  Go on, Peter.”

“Would you like to learn to read, Jack?” said Anderson; “and would you like to hear me read the Bible to you, until you can read it yourself?”

“Indeed I would,” replied I.  “There’s many of the boys on the beach, smaller than me, who can both read and write.”

Peter Anderson then told me that he would teach me, provided I behaved myself well.  He desired that I would come to his cabin every afternoon at six o’clock, a time which interfered little with my avocation of “Poor Jack,” and that he would give me a lesson.  Before he had finished talking, one of the lieutenants of the hospital sent for him; and Ben remained behind, to point out to me how valuable my knowing how to read and write might one day prove to me.

“I’ve no larning myself, Jack,” said he; “and I know the loss of it.  Had I known how to read and write, I might have been something better than a poor Greenwich pensioner; but nevertheless I’m thankful that I’m no worse.  Ever since I’ve been a man grown I’ve only regretted it once—­and that’s been all my life.  Why, Jack, I’d give this right arm of mine—­to be sure, it’s no great things now, but once it could send a harpoon in, up to the hilt—­but still a right arm is a right arm to the end of your days!—­and I’d give it with pleasure, if I only knew how to read and write.  Nay, I wouldn’t care about the writing; but, if I could only read print, Jack, I’d give it; for then I could read the Bible, as Peter Anderson does.  Why, Jack, when we do go to chapel on Sunday, there’s not one in ten of us who can follow the parson with his book; all we can do is to listen; and when he has done speaking, we are done also, and must wait till he preaches again.  Don’t I feel ashamed, then, Jack, at not being able to read? and ought not they to feel proud who can—­no, not proud, but thankful[2]?  We don’t think of the Bible much in our younger days, boy; but, when we are tripping our anchor for the other world, we long to read away our doubts and misgivings; and it’s the only chart you can navigate by safely.  I think a parent has much to answer for that don’t teach its child to read; but I must not blame my father or mother, for I never knew them.”