CHAPTER II.

SPEAKING OUT.

The table was spread with food, homely but abundant, steaming bacon and

greens.

"A twenty miles' walk must have made you ready for your dinner, Ned,"

said Bessy, as she seated herself at the table, and a well-filled plate

was soon before each of the party.

"Why, uncle, what are you waiting for?" asked Dan, surprised that the

hungry sailor did not at once begin his meal.

"Bessy," said Ned, quietly, "do you say grace, or shall I?"

Again mother and son exchanged glances. As no answer was given, Ned,

in few words, thanked God for His mercies through Christ. This was no

mere form with the weather-beaten sailor, who found himself in haven at

last, after the tempest and the fight, the hardships and perils of a

sea life, and was thankful to God for mercies greater than preservation

through all these.

"I'm afraid," said Ned, looking with a good-humoured smile at his

plate, "that a maimed Jack-tar such as I am, must signal for assistance

even at the mess."

Bessy had for the moment forgotten her brother's condition; she had not

realised the constant inconvenience which must follow the loss of an

arm. Ned's misfortune did not, however, appear in the least to weigh

down his spirits, and he chatted merrily through dinner-time, talking

over old days, and then making inquiries as to what hope there might be

of his getting such employment as might suit a one-armed man.

"I've heard as how Mr. Curtis, our vicar, is looking out for some one

to help with his school," said Dan.

"I think that it must have been your parson who hailed me on my course

here," observed Ned.

"He's rather an oldish man, bald, with a little limp in his walk," said

Dan.

"That's he!" cried the sailor. "He talked to me friendly enough, and

asked me how I had lost my arm."

"And what said you?" inquired Bessy.

"The truth, of course, that I was lubber enough to stumble down into a

cellar at night."

"Oh! Ned, he would think that you were drunk," exclaimed Bessy.

"I'm afraid that he did," said Ned. "I could see in his face that I'd

let myself down a peg in his good opinion."

"Oh! Uncle, what a chance you lost!" cried Dan, his black eyes

twinkling slily under his shock of rough hair. "If I'd been you, I'd

have told such a tale, how I lost that arm boarding a thundering big

ship, or saving an officer's life, or doing some desperate deed!

You'd have been a reg'lar hero in Colme; they'd have been getting up

a subscription for you, and Mr. Curtis would have clapped you into

the place of teacher at once! 'Twould have been the making of you, it

would!"

"Dan," said Ned, laying down his fork, and looking steadily at his

nephew across the table, "do you know what a lie is?"

The boy was taken aback by the sudden question, and his eyes sunk under

the gaze that was fixed upon him.

Receiving no answer, the sailor went on—"A lie is a mean thing—a

senseless, a wicked: a habitual liar is a sneak, a coward, and a fool!"

"A fool! I don't see how you can make that out," muttered Dan, who was

secretly not a little proud of his cunning, and who thought the name of

fool a great deal worse than that of knave.

"It's easy enough to make out," said Ned; "a liar is a fool as regards

this life; for, look ye, he's sure to be found out afore long, and

a good character is worth more than anything that he could get in

exchange for it. Is it nothing to be trusted, is it nothing to be able

to look any man in the face?"

Dan was at the moment uneasily peering down at the crumbs on the floor.

"Would a man not be called a fool who should put to sea in a vessel

whose timbers were all rotten, however gaily painted she might be, or

however fine a figure-head she might carry? She must be stove in when

the first storm came, she must soon show that she was not seaworthy."

Ned had spoken with the fiery energy of one who, as he often owned,

carried "too much gunpowder in his cargo;" but his tone softened to

quiet earnestness as he went on.

"And if we come to speak of another world, my lad, what shall we say

of the folly of lying, whatever the temptation to do so may be? Was it

without reason, think you, that St. Paul, when telling how a Christian

man should be armed to fight against the devil, bade him first be

'girt about with truth.' * Why, we couldn't so much as set a foot in

the golden city without it; you've heard what's said in God's Word of

that matter; outside, shut out of glory, in company with murderers and

idolaters will be 'whosoever loveth and maketh a lie'! † The devil

himself is the father of lies, ‡ such as make them, follow him; and

they who choose their portion with him are fools, whatever the world

may give, or whatever the world may call them!"

* Eph. vi. 14. † Rev. xxii. 15. ‡ John viii. 44.

There was silence in the cottage for several minutes after Ned had

ceased speaking.

Dan attempted no reply, but finished his dinner in somewhat sulky

reserve; then appearing suddenly to remember that he had to look

after the cows, the boy rose and slunk out of the place. Dan did not,

however, go in the direction of the fields, but into the village to

play at pitch-and-toss with Tom and Jack Mullins, and to tell them

wonderful stories of his sailor uncle, who was, he said, a first-rate

fellow for fighting, and polished off Russians as fast as they might

knock down ninepins, but who had a ticklish temper to deal with,

flaring up like fire at a word.