"And read it," answered the Captain, eyeing him attentively, and proceeding to quote it from memory. "'My dear Ned Cuttle, when I left home for the West Indies in forlorn search of intelligence of my dear-' There he sits! There’s Wal’r!" said the Captain, as if he were relieved by getting hold of anything that was real and indisputable.
"Well, Ned. Now attend a moment!" said the old man. "When I wrote first—that was from Barbados—I said that though you would receive that letter long before the year was out, I should be glad if you would open the packet, as it explained the reason of my going away. Very good, Ned. When I wrote the second, third, and perhaps the fourth times—that was from Jamaica—I said I was in just the same state, couldn’t rest, and couldn’t come away from that part of the world, without knowing that my boy was lost or saved. When I wrote next—that, I think, was from Demerara, wasn’t it?"
"That he thinks was from Demerara, warn’t it!" said the Captain, looking hopelessly round.
"—I said," proceeded old Sol, "that still there was no certain information got yet. That I found many captains and others, in that part of the world, who had known me for years, and who assisted me with a passage here and there, and for whom I was able, now and then, to do a little in return, in my own craft. That everyone was sorry for me, and seemed to take a sort of interest in my wanderings; and that I began to think it would be my fate to cruise about in search of tidings of my boy, until I died."
"Began to think as how he was a scientific flying Dutchman!" said the Captain, as before, and with great seriousness.
"But when the news come one day, Ned,—that was to Barbados, after I got back there,—that a China trader home’ard bound had been spoke, that had my boy aboard, then, Ned, I took passage in the next ship and came home; arrived at home to-night to find it true, thank God!" said the old man, devoutly.
The Captain, after bowing his head with great reverence, stared all round the circle, beginning with Mr. Toots, and ending with the Instrument Maker; then gravely said:
"Sol Gills! The observation as I’m a-going to make is calc’lated to blow every stitch of sail as you can carry, clean out of the bolt-ropes, and bring you on your beam ends with a lurch. Not one of them letters was ever delivered to Ed’ard Cuttle. Not one o’ them letters," repeated the Captain, to make his declaration the more solemn and impressive, "was ever delivered unto Ed’ard Cuttle, Mariner, of England, as lives at home at ease, and doth improve each shining hour!"
"And posted by my own hand! And directed by my own hand, Number nine Brig Place!" exclaimed old Sol.
The colour all went out of the Captain’s face and all came back again in a glow.
"What do you mean, Sol Gills, my friend, by Number nine Brig Place?" inquired the Captain.
"Mean? Your lodgings, Ned," returned the old man. "Mrs. what’s-her-name! I shall forget my own name next, but I am behind the present time—I always was, you recollect—and very much confused. Mrs.—"
