“Nay; gallantry forbids his going with me now,” answered John Paul; “and I have my sailing orders.  But had I known of this, I should never have wasted my breath in persuading him to remain.”

“And did he stand in need of much persuasion, captain?” asked Dolly, archly.

Time was pressing, and the owner came aboard, puffing,—­a round-faced, vociferous, jolly merchant, who had no sooner got his breath than he lost it again upon catching sight of Dolly.

While the captain was giving the mate his final orders, Mr. Orchardson, for such was his name, regaled us with a part of his life’s history.  He had been a master himself, and mangled and clipped King George’s English as only a true master might.

“I like your own captain better than ever, Richard,” whispered Dolly, while Mr. Orchardson relieved himself of his quid over the other side; “how commanding he is!  Were I to take passage in the Betsy, I know I should be in love with him long before we got to Norfolk.”

I took it upon myself to tell Mr. Orchardson, briefly and clearly as I could, the lamentable story of John Paul’s last cruise.  For I feared it might sooner or later reach his ears from prejudiced mouths.  And I ended by relating how the captain had refused a commission in the navy because he had promised to take the Betsy.  This appeared vastly to impress him, and he forgot Dorothy’s presence.

“Passion o’ my ’eart, Mr. Carvel,” cried he, excitedly,

“John Paul’s too big a man, an’ too good a seaman, to go into the navy without hinflooence.  If flag horfocers I roots of is booted haside to rankle like a lump o’ salt butter in a gallipot, ’ow will a poor Scotch lieutenant win hadvancement an’ he be not o’ the King’s friends?  ’Wilkes an’ Liberty,’ say I; ‘forever,’ say I. An’ w’en I see ‘im goin’ to the Tower to be’old the Champion, ‘Captain Paul,’ says I, ’yere a man arfter my hown ‘eart.’  My heye, sir, didn’t I see ’im, w’n a mere lad, take the John into Kingston ‘arbour in the face o’ the worst gale I hever seed blowed in the Caribbees?  An’ I says, ‘Bill Horchardson, an’ ye Never ‘ave ships o’ yere own, w’ich I ’ope will be, y’ell know were to look for a marster.’  An’ I tells ’im that same, Mr. Carvel.  I means no disrespect to the dead, sir, but an’ John Paul ’ad discharged the Betsy, I’d not ‘a’ been out twenty barrels or more this day by Thames mudlarks an’ scuffle hunters.  ’Eave me flat, if ‘e’ll be two blocks wi’ liquor an’ dischargin’ cargo.  An’ ye may rest heasy, Mr. Carvel, I’ll not do wrong by ’im, neither.”

He told me that if I would honour him in Maid Lane, Southwark, I should have as many pounds as I liked of the best tobacco ever cured in Cuba.  And so he left me to see that the mate had signed all his lighter bills, shouting to the captain not to forget his cockets at Gravesend.  Dolly and I stood silent while the men hove short, singing a jolly song to the step.  With a friendly wave the round figure of Mr. Orchardson disappeared over the side, and I knew that the time had come to say farewell.  I fumbled in my waistcoat for the repeater I had bought that morning over against Temple Bar, in Fleet Street, and I thrust it into John Paul’s hand as he came up.