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. CHAPTER VII _More Particularly Concerns Our Young Companion._ The days that now followed for a week might be said to be accurate copies of that first day. Had one kept a diary, it would have been necessary to write only: "ditto," "ditto," "ditto" under the happenings of the first. Wonderful dawn--ditto; white herons and pelicans--ditto; duck--ditto. But they were none the less delightful for that--for there is a sameness that is far indeed from monotony--though I will confess that, for my own tastes, toward the week-end, the carnage of duck began to partake a little of that latter quality. Still, Charlie and Sailor were so happy that I wouldn't have let them suspect that for the world. Besides, I had my wonderful young friend, to whom I grew daily more attached. He and I, of course, were of the same mind on the subject of duck, and, as often as possible, would give Charlie the slip and explore the ins and outs of the mangrove islands--merely for beauty's sake, or in study of the queer forms of life dimly and uncouthly climbing the ladder of being in those strange solitudes. In these comradely hours together, I found myself feeling drawn to him as I can imagine a young father is drawn to a young son; and sometimes I seemed to see in his eyes the suggestion of a confidence he was on the edge of making me--a whimsical, pondering expression, as though wondering whether he dare to tell me or not. "What is it, Jack?" I asked him for once when, early in our acquaintance, we had asked him what we were to call him, he had answered with a laugh: "O! call me Jack--Jack Harkaway." We had laughed, reminding him of the schoolboy hero of that name and he had answered: "Never mind. One name is as good as another. That is my name when I go on adventures. Tell me your adventure names. I don't want your prosaic every-day names." "Well," I had replied, entering into the lad's humour, "my friend here is Sir Francis Drake, and I, well--I'm Sir Henry Morgan." "What is it, Jack?" I repeated. But he shook his head. "No!" he replied, "I like you ever so much--and I wish I could; but I mustn't." "Somebody else's secret again?" I ventured. "Yes!" And he added: "This time it's mine too. But--some day perhaps; who knows?--" He broke off in boyish confusion. "All right, dear Jack," I said, patting his shoulder, "take your own time. We're friends anyway." "That we are," responded the lad, with a fine glow. We l
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