“Th’ ould man had no more sproil [5] nor a babby, an’ had pretty nigh lost hes mouth-speech, but he beckons Sam to the bed, and whispers—­

“’ Sam, you’ve a-been a gude sarvent to me.’

“‘Gude maasters makes gude sarvents,’ says Sam, an’ falls to cryin’ bitterly.

“‘You’m down i’ my will,’ says the Commodore, ’so you’ve no call to take on so.  But look ’ee here, Sam; there’s wan thing more I wants ‘ee to do for your old maaster.  I’ve a-been a Wanderin’ Jewel all my life,’ says he, ’—­wanderer ‘pon the face o’ the earth, like—­like—­’

“‘Cain,’ says Sam.

“‘Well, not azackly.  Hows’ever, you an’ me, Sam, have a-been like Jan Tresize’s geese, never happy unless they be where they bain’t, an’ that’s the truth.  An’ now,’ says he, ’I’ve a-tuk a consait I’d like my ould bones to be carr’d home to Carne, an’ laid to rest ’long wi’ my haveage. [6] All the Trounces have a-been berried in Carne Churchyard, Sam, an’ I’m thinkin’ I’d like to go back to mun, like the Prodigious Son.  So what I wants ’ee to do es this:—­When I be dead an’ gone, you mus’ get a handy box made, so’s I shall carry aisy, an’ take me back to England.  You’ll find plenty o’ money for the way i’ the skivet [7] o’ my chest there, i’ the corner.’

“‘’Tes a brave long way from here to England,’ says Sam.

“‘I knaws what you be thinkin’ ‘bout,’ says the Commodore.  ‘You’m reckonin’ I’ll spile on the way.  But I don’t mean ’ee to go by say.  You mus’ take me ‘cross the bay an’ then ship aboard a train, as’ll take ‘ee dro Seville, an’ Madrid, an’ Paris, to Dover.  ‘Tes a fast train,’ says he, ‘as trains go i’ these parts; but I’m doubtin’ ef et starts ivery day or only dree times a week.  I reckon, tho’, ef you finds out, I can manage so’s my dyin’ shan’t interfere wi’ that.’

“Well, Sam was forced to promise, an’ the Commodore seemed mighty relieved, an’ lay still while Sam read to ‘n out o’ the books that th’ ould man had by ’n.  There was the Bible, and the Pellican’s Progress, an’ Philip Quarles, an’ Hannah Snell, the female sodger.  Sam read a bit from each, an’ when he comes to that part about Christ’n crossing the river, th’ ould man sets up sudden an’ calls, ‘Land, Sam, land!  Fetch a glass, lad!’—­just like that, sir; an’ wi’ that falls back dead.

“Well, sir, Sam was ‘most out o’ hes wits, fust along, for grief to lose hes maaster; but he warn’t the man to go back ’pon hes word.  So he loses no time, but, bein’ a handy man, rigs up a wooden chest wi’ the help o’ a ship’s carpenter, an’ a tin case to ship into this, an’ dresses up the Commodore inside, an’ nails ‘un down proper; an’ wi’in twenty-four hours puts across in a boat, ‘long wi’ hes charge, for to catch the train.

“He hadn’ barely set foot on shore, an’ was givin’ orders about carryin’ the chest up to the stashun, un’ thinkin’ ’pon the hollerness o’ earthly ways, as was nat’ral, when up steps a chap in highly-coloured breeches an’ axes ’un ef he’d anything to declare.