I found Anderson, as usual, seated under the colonnade, reading, and I went up to him.

“Well, Jack, my-boy, you are home early,” said he.

“Yes,” replied I gravely, and then I was silent.

After a pause of about a minute, Peter Anderson said, “Jack, I see there’s something the matter.  Now, tell me what it is.  Can I help you?”

“I did wish to speak to you,” replied I.  “I’ve been thinking—­about going to sea.”

“And how long have you thought of that, Jack?”

“I’ve thought more of it lately,” replied I.

“Yes, since Spicer has been talking to you.  Now, is that not the case?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I knew that, Jack.  I’m at your service for as long as you please; now sit down and tell me all he has said to you that you can remember.  I shan’t interrupt you.”

I did so; and before I had half finished, Anderson replied, “That is quite enough, Jack.  One thing is evident to me—­that Spicer has led a bad and lawless life, and would even now continue it, old as he is, only that he is prevented by being crippled.  Jack, he has talked to you about privateers!  God forgive me if I wrong him; but I think, had he said pirates, he would have told the truth.  But say nothing about that observation of mine; I wish from my heart that you had never known him.  But here comes your father.  He has a right to know what we are talking about, for you owe duty to him as his son, and nothing can be done without his permission.”

When my father came up to us, Anderson begged him to sit down, and he told him what we had been discoursing about.  I had already stated my objections to enter on board of a man-of-war.

“Well,” said my father, “I may come athwart hawse of that old piccaroon yet, if he don’t look out.  Not that I mind your going to sea, Jack, as your father did before you; but what he says about the sarvice is a confounded lie.  Let a man do his duty, and the sarvice is a good one; and a man who is provided for as he is, ought to be ashamed of himself to speak as he has done, the old rascal.  Still, I do not care for your entering the sarvice so young.  It would be better that you were first apprentice and learned your duty; and as soon as your time is out, you will be pressed, of course, and then you would sarve the King.  I see no objection to all that.”

“But why do you want so particularly to go to sea, Jack?” observed Anderson.

“I don’t like being a beggar—­begging for halfpence!” replied I.

“And Spicer told you that you were a beggar?” said Peter.

“He did.”

“Jack, if that is the case, we are all beggars; for we all work, and receive what money we can get for our work.  There is no shame in that.”

“I can’t bear to think of it,” replied I, as the tears came into my eyes.

“Well, well!  I see how it is,” replied Anderson; “it’s a pity you ever fell in with that man.”