you a son."

"I have since heard a rumour to that effect," said Captain Salt
coldly.

"Cherish that son, for his worth to you is inestimable. He lies, at
this moment, on board the _Good Intent_--I regret to say in irons.
His Majesty enlisted him this afternoon, somewhat against his will,
and he began very unluckily by kicking his superior officer from one
end of the frigate to the other. It was the natural ebullition of
youth, and the sergeant was a Dutchman. Therefore in this letter I
have pardoned him. Take it--a boat is waiting for you--and convey it
to his captain. Thereafter seek the poor lad out and imprint the
parental kiss upon both cheeks. Reveal yourself to him!"

"Your lordship is excessively kind, but I stand in no immediate need of
filial love."

"My dear sir, I promise you that this son means thousands in your
pocket. He means to you a calm old age, surrounded by luxuries which
are hardly to be gained by espionage, however zealously practised."

"In what way, may I inquire?"

"I will inform you when you have done the small service I asked just
now."

Captain Salt took the letter and moved towards the door.

"By the way," the Earl said, "it may be painful to you to be reminded
of your former connection with Harwich; but did you happen to know,
in those days, two gentlemen, captains in King Charles's Navy, and
natives, I believe, of this town--Barker and Runacles?"

"I did. They were both, at one time, suitors for the hand of my late
wife."

"Indeed? I have been trying to enlist them for this business of the
mutiny."

"They were a simple pair, I remember, and would serve our purpose
admirably."

"I found them a trifle too simple. Well, I won't keep you just now.
Remember the help I expect from you; but we will talk that over in a
day or two. Meanwhile, keep a parent's eye upon your son (he's
called Tristram), for through him your reward will be attained.
Good night."

CHAPTER VII.

THE CAPTAINS MAKE A FALSE START.

It was past midnight when Captain Runacles left his friend's pavilion
and let himself through the little blue door to his own garden.
The heavens were clear and starry, and he paused for a moment on the
grass-plot, his hands clasped behind him, his head tilted back and
his eyes fixed on the Great Bear that hung directly overhead.

"Poor Jack!" he muttered, shaking his head at the constellation, as
if gently accusing Fate. His nature had been considerably