to pray for guidance. After that I will
talk with you."

"For my part," said Captain Trench, as Paul rose and left the tent, "I
see no chance of moving that savage by religion or anything else, so
I'll go an' make arrangements for the carryin' out o' _my_ plans. Come
along to the woods with me, Olly, I shall want your help."

"Father," said the boy, in a serious tone, as they entered the forest,
"surely you don't mean to carry out in earnest the plan you spoke of to
Grummidge and the others yesterday?"

"Why not, my son?"

"Because we are sure to be all killed if you do. As well might we try
to stop the rising tide as to subdue a whole tribe of savages."

"And would you, Olly," said the seaman, stopping and looking sternly at
the boy, "would you advise me to be so mean as to look on at the
slaughter of my shipmates without making one effort to save them?"

"I would never advise you to do anything mean, father; an' if I did so
advise you, you wouldn't do it; but the effort you think of makin' would
not save the men. It would only end in all of us bein' killed."

"Well, and what o' that? Would it be the first time that men have been
killed in a good cause?"

"But a cause can't be a good one unless some good comes of it! If there
was a chance at all, I would say go at 'em, daddy, an' bowl 'em down
like skittles, but you know there's no chance in your plan. Boltin'
into the woods an' gittin' lost would be little use in the face o'
savages that can track a deer by invisible footprints. An' fighting
them would be like fighting moskitoes--one thousand down, another
thousand come on! Besides, when you an' I are killed--which we're sure
to be--what would come o' mother, sittin' there all alone, day after
day, wonderin' why we never come back, though we promised to do so?
Think how anxious it'll make her for years to come, an' how
broken-hearted at last; an' think how careful she always was of you.
Don't you remember in that blessed letter she sent me, just before we
sailed, how she tells me to look well after you, an' sew the frogs on
your sea-coat when they git loose, for she knows you'll never do it
yourself, but will be fixin' it up with a wooden skewer or a bit o'
rope-yarn. An' how I was to see an' make you keep your feet dry by
changin' your hose for you when you were asleep, for you'd never change
them yourself till all your toes an' heels came through 'em. Ah! daddy,
it will be a bad job for mother if