g I could for you. You have been a
real friend to me," said Blair warmly. "You can't think how much I
thank you for it."

Derry sat down and laid the paper on the table before him. Then the two
were for a moment silent. Blair and his "friend" formed a strange
contrast to each other.

The slender stripling, tall for his years, was yet in the blossom of his
youth. His face, which was so like his loving mother's, would have been
effeminate, but for the savor of old Joe Robertson the pilot, which told
in the marked nose and strong chin of the boy, but had no part in his
great, clear, soul-lit eyes, or the flexible lines of his changing
mouth. That mouth was now parted as if he would say more, but waited for
some word or sign from his companion.

Deny Duck was a very bundle of time-worn, storm-tried muscles and
sinews. The knots on his bare arms were like knobs of oak; and his
great brawny hand that lay there on the white paper, looked like a
powerful living thing, having almost an identity and will of its own.

Derry's body and whole development to his thighs were those of a tall,
stalwart man; but his lower limbs were short and sturdy, ending in great
flat feet which were as much at home in the water as on the rolling
deck, or amid the dizzy rigging. These peculiarities had given him the
name by which he was known--originally "Daring Duck," but by degrees
contracted into the "Derry Duck" which Blair had caught from the
sailors.

It was hard to realize that the mate of the Molly had ever been an
infant, whose tender cheek had been pressed to that of a loving mother.
And yet it was true that a Christian mother had once hailed that
hardened man as a gift from God to nurse for him. His lips had been
taught to pray, and his young footsteps guided to the house of God.

Time had made sad changes in him since then. His skin was now as tough
and well-tanned as his leathern belt, in which hung many a curious
implement of war and peace, a perfect tool-shop for the boarder's wild
work, or the seaman's craft. In that strong, hard face there was a tale
of a life of exposure, a lawless life, which had well-nigh given over to
the evil one the soul which God meant for himself.

"I want you to write a letter for me," said Derry, looking cautiously
about him and then going on, "a letter to my little daughter. Hush; not
a word of this to any of the men. When it is done, you must put it
inside of one of your love-letters to your mother