liff-side facing the
sea, and towards ten o'clock a very old man would walk slowly down the
village street and take his seat. A little shelf held his pipe and
tobacco-jar, and he would sit and smoke contentedly until the afternoon.
The children used to play around him with perfect confidence, although
he seldom spoke to them. His face looked as if it were roughly carved
out of stone, and his complexion was of a deep rich brown. On his
watch-chain he wore several trinkets, and he was specially proud of one
thin disk: this was the Nile medal; for the old man had been in the
fight at Aboukir. He seldom spoke about his experience of life on board
a man-of-war; he was far more interested in bestowing appreciative
criticism on the little coasters that flitted past northward and
southward, and in saying severe things about the large screw colliers.
But although he had little to tell about his fighting experiences, he
was a hero none the less. He lived in a little white cottage at the high
end of the Green, and a woman came every morning to attend to his simple
wants; for his old wife had died long ago. He was lonely, and not much
noticed outside the village; yet he had done, in his time, one of the
finest things known in the history of bravery.

The Veteran lived happily in his way. He had made some money in a small
sloop with which he used to run round to the Firth; good things were
sent to him from the Hall; and the head gardener had orders to let him
have whatever fruit and vegetables he wanted. He had no wish to see
populous places: his uneventful life was varied enough for his desires.
If he were properly coaxed, he was willing to tell many things about
Nelson; but, strange to say, he was not fond of the great Admiral.
Collingwood was his man, and he always spoke with reverence about the
north-country sailor. He cared very little for glory; and he estimated
men on the simple principle that one kind man is worth twenty clever
ones and a hundred plucky ones. The story of his acquaintance with
Collingwood and Nelson was strange. In 1797 the Veteran was just
nineteen years old; but he had already got command of a little sloop
that plied up the Firth, and he was accounted one of the best sailors on
the coast. His father was a hearty man of eight-and-forty, and had
retired from the sea.

Now it happened that the wealthiest shipowner of the little port had a
very wild and unsteady son, who was a ship captain and sailed one of h