When we came to an anchor and made ready to go ashore, the little giant Trunnell came up to say good-by to the ladies. I had decided to accompany them to the city.
When he shook hands, the tears ran down out of his little eyes and trickled over his bushy beard to the deck.
"I wishes ye all the best o' luck," said he, and he fumbled in his pocket for a moment, letting a small piece of paper escape and flutter to the deck. I stooped and picked it up, glancing at the writing on it. The words were:--
Mrs. William Sackett, 25 Prince St., E.C., London, Eng.
He snatched it from me and seized my hand, gripping it so hard I almost cried out.
"Go along, ye lucky dog," he cried. "Say good-by to Chips an' the rest afore ye goes ashore. We'll be berthed an' paid off when ye comes back."
I said good-by to the men at the gangway, and then helped the ladies over the side into the boat, seating myself in the stern-sheets between them.
"I should think you'd be thankful to get in at last," said Jennie.
"Yes," I whispered; "but I have no objections to sailing again as a mate."
Her hand closed upon mine behind the backboard.
"Neither have I," she breathed in return.
"Whose mate?" I asked her.
But that's an old story.