and so on; then, leaving her half-a-crown for her
youngest boy, to her great astonishment, the kind-
hearted Jack-tar moved on, and in a few minutes fell
in with several young men.

‘Good day, my hearties!’ said Jack; ‘does old
Jacob Green keep the “ White Horse” yet ”

‘Jacob Green!’ answered a carter: ‘not Jacob,
sure-ly ; Jacob’s been dead this—why, how long ago,
Tom? You ought to know, as you're his nephy.’

‘Why,’ said Tom, considering, ‘uncle’s been dead,
that is, great-uncle Jake, fifteen years—nay, sixteen
years, come Martlemas, and his son ,

‘Horace Green ?’ broke in the old sailor.

‘Aye, Horace Green. But who told you his name ?
You'll not be a stranger then, I reckon, in these
parts P’

‘Not 1,’ said old Jack, laughing; ‘I was born next
door to the “ White Horse.” Have they mended his
head yet?’

The young men looked puzzled how to answer,
and the old sailor went on, turning to ‘Tom,—

“Now, you’re a Green; and you,’ turning to the
carter, ‘you remind me very much of a Randall;
while you,’ here the old sailor paused some time in
thought as he looked at the third youth, ‘ah, now I
have it! you must be a Brownrigg, surely,’

‘And who on earth are you,’ answered the carter,
‘that you know our names? My name’s not Ran-
dall, but my mother was a Randal! ; and that’s Mike
Brownrigg, as sure as I’ve got this whip in my
hand.’

The old sailor laughed, and said he would keep his
own secret until the evening, when perhaps some of
them might see him at the ‘ White Horse,’ where he
meant to put up for the night. As Jack Waud
passed the old house where he was born he could
not keep back the tears. The place was forlorn and
desolate. Nobody cared for it, that was certain, for
the village boys had taken cockshies at the windows,
and not one whole pane could be seen. Ruinous as
the old house looked, the sailor felt more joy than
sorrow, for as no one cared to live there the road
was all the more open for him.

‘Now,’ said he to himself, ‘I shall sit as an old
man by the fireside where I used to play as a boy.’

 

CHAPTER II.

Horacr GREEN had been a very fat baby when
the old sailor left Blackfoot, and he was now a
thriving innkeeper, stout, middle-aged, and import-
ant. Jack looked curiously at the whilom fat baby,
as he busied himself in laying the cloth. He won-
dered how the portly, rather bald innkeepez, and the
fat baby, could be one and the same. And as he
looked at Horace, so he thought Worace stared at
him, more than was polite, for it is not considered
polite to stare. Once when LLorace went out of the
xoom, and left the door ajar, old Jack caught the
words, ‘Come back again, ‘Old Ben Waud,’ ‘As like
as two peas,’ and other expressions of a similar sort,
which made him suspect he was known to be the
wanderer come home. So when Horace came in
again Jack opened fire.

‘Mr. Green,’ said he, ‘when I saw you last you
were a fine baby, almost heavy enough to break

 

 

Dolly Pearson’s arms. It was a sunny morning in
October, and I remember it well. How are you,
Mr. Green? I’m Jack, Waud.’ .

‘I thought as much,’ said Horace. ‘I heard so,
too, from others, who knew you by your likeness to
your father” :

‘Yes, Mr. Green,’ said the old sailor, ‘I am indeed
that runaway son. Your hand, sir, and let me say
how glad I am to see the baby Dolly held has
become such a fine-looking man. By-the-by, what
became of Dolly? I think I used rather to admire
her. Ay, and what has become of scores of others?
And your wife, sir; I hope she’s well. And how
many bairns have you?’

Instead of attempting to reply to all the sailor’s
questions, Horace went to fetch Mrs. Green and the
children, There was a baby borne aloft in the pro-
cession—a fat baby—as fat as Horace himself used
to be, a second baby-Horace in fact. After a few
pleasant things had been said by the old seaman, he
begged to feel the weight of the baby, who, finding
Jack’s rugged figure-head to his mind, was ex-
tremely gracious in that honest embrace.

When Mrs. Green and her little flock were gone
the sailor said, ‘Pardon me, Mr. Green, for being so
very troublesome ; but I see the old house—the house
where I was born, you know—is without a tenant.’

‘Without a tenant! I should think so!’ answered
Horace. ‘The place is ina sad state, and we did
hear that the Squire had given orders to have it
pulled down. But the Squire’s over head and ears
in debt, and I doubt whether he will do even as much
as that.’

‘T hope not,’ answered the sailor. ‘I trust not, Mr.
Green. I’ve been a rolling stone, but P’ve gathered
some moss—enough to make an old man a soft bed.
I’ve long thought and dreamed of coming here and
ending my days; and I hope the Squire—Squire
Atkinson, is it not ??

The landlord nodded.

‘I hope the Squire will let me take the house, and
put it into repair at my own cost.’ :

‘No doubt he will be glad enough to do that,’ said
Horace. ‘He is badly in want of a five-pound note,
by all accounts; and we shall be glad to have you,
Mr. Waud, for a neighbour. We always esteemed
your father as a most upright man.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Green. But now, the company
in your parlour will be glad, I dare say, to hear the
old sailor talk a little about his adventures.’

It was as Jack supposed. The ‘White Horse’
was the centre, that evening, of Blackfoot. Among
wondering men, whose farthest journeys had been
into the next shire, the old sailor stood on an oaken
bench and related the story of his life.

They saw him—most of them, at least—that night
for the first time. He’d been round the world, and
in every quarter and gone, and in most countries.

He had been twice a castaway on a ratt, and had
once been the only survivor. He had seen the
horrors of a crew in mutiny, when the captain was
shot through the head, and the first mate murdered
with an axe, as he himself was bound tight with
ropes to the mast. He had wandered in the hot
steamy woods of South America, and had been on
his back with yellow fever, raging mad; and he had

 

 

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