waving his cap in the air, with a cheer of more than
half-jocular defiance, he turned and fled towards Arbroath as if one of
the nor'-east gales, in its wildest fury, were sweeping him over the
land.

CHAPTER THREE.

OUR HERO OBLIGED TO GO TO SEA.

When Ruby Brand reached the outskirts of Arbroath, he checked his speed
and walked into his native town whistling gently, and with his hands in
his pockets, as though he had just returned from an evening walk. He
directed his steps to one of the streets near the harbour, in which his
mother's cottage was situated.

Mrs Brand was a delicate, little old woman--so little and so old that
people sometimes wondered how it was possible that she could be the
mother of such a stalwart son. She was one of those kind, gentle,
uncomplaining, and unselfish beings, who do not secure much popularity
or admiration in this world, but who secure obedient children, also
steadfast and loving friends. Her favourite book was the Bible; her
favourite hope in regard to earthly matters, that men should give up
fighting and drinking, and live in peace; her favourite theory that the
study of _truth_ was the object for which man was created, and her
favourite meal--tea.

Ruby was her only child. Minnie was the daughter of a distant relation,
and, having been left an orphan, she was adopted by her. Mrs Brand's
husband was a sailor. He commanded a small coasting sloop, of which
Ruby had been the mate for several years. As we have said, Ruby had
been prevailed on to remain at home for some months in order to please
his mother, whose delicacy of health was such that his refusal would
have injured her seriously; at least the doctor said so, therefore Ruby
agreed to stay.

The sloop _Penguin_, commanded by Ruby's father, was on a voyage to
Newcastle at that time, and was expected in Arbroath every day. But it
was fated never more to cast anchor in that port. The great storm, to
which reference has been made in a previous chapter, caused many wrecks
on the shores of Britain. The _Penguin_, was one of the many.

In those days telegraphs, railroads, and penny papers did not exist.
Murders were committed then, as now, but little was said, and less was
known about them. Wrecks occurred then, as now, but few, except the
persons immediately concerned, heard of them. "Destructive fires",
"terrible accidents", and the familiar round of "appalling catastrophes"
occurred then, as now, but their