.

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