Argument between Pat and Captain Corbet.—Meeting between Captain Corbet and the Antelope.—Pat alone with the Baby.—Corbet becomes an Exile, and vanishes into a Fog Bank.

PAT walked briskly, and in due time arrived at Captain Corbet’s house. He knocked at the door.

“Come in,” said a voice.

He entered, and found himself face to face with the one whom he wished to see. The aged navigator was seated near a cradle, gently tilting the rocker with his foot, and thus giving to it an easy and agreeable motion. There was a smile of peace on Corbet’s mild countenance, which deepened into a smile of welcome as he recognized Pat.

“Why, how d’ye dew?” he exclaimed. “Railly, I’m delighted to see you. Take a cheer.”

“Thank ye, kindly,” said Pat; “but it’s a hurry I’m in, and I’ve jist brought a message for you from the b’ys.”

“The boys?”

“Yis. They want you at the wharf.”

“Me?”

“Yis; it’s dyin to see you they are.”

“The boys—dyin to see me at the wharf?” repeated Captain Corbet, slowly.

“It’s that same they are doin, and they sint me to bring you down.”

“Wal, that’s a pity, now,” said Captain Corbet. “I’m railly pained. I wish I could go. But you see the old ’oman’s out; gone to see a nevey of hern that’s jest took down with the influenzy, an I’m alone, an’ got to take car’ of the babby.”

“Ah, sure now an ye must go,” said Pat, entreatingly. “Look at me; sure an didn’t I run all the way up from the wharf for ye.”

“Wal, railly now, I’d do anythin to oblige the boys, but you see thar’s the babby, a delicate creatur, an’ the old ’oman away. But what do the boys want to see me for?”

“Sure, an it’s for matthers av the greatest importance intoirely, so it is.”

“But thar’s no use for me to go down, I tell you. You go down, and get them to come up.”

“Och, sure an the businiss won’t allow thim to come up at all, at all.”

“O, yes, it will. ’Tain’t likely they have anything so dreadful important but what some of them can come here.”

“But I tell ye this businiss must be transacted on the wharf,” said Pat, earnestly. “It’s on the wharf it must be done, so it is.”

“The wharf? I don’t see that exactly. What is the business?”

“Why, why—it’s—it’s a kind av a—a—tis-timonial, sure; an there you have it.”

“A testimonial?—railly—wal, now, that’s rail kind. But couldn’t the boys come up here—or postpone it?”

“Sorra a bit of that same culd they do,” said Pat. “It’s all got to be done on the wharf, and this evenin so it has.”

“On the wharf?”

“Sure, it’s jist that same, so it is.”

“An this evenin?”

“Sorra a time else.”

“What kin it be?” said Captain Corbet, meditatively, lost in wonder at the mystery that surrounded Pat’s message. He leaned his head upon his hand, while his foot still jogged the cradle, and sat for a time lost in thought.

But Pat’s impatience could not endure the delay.

“O, come along,” said he; “sure it’s all one to you.”

“But I can’t,” said the captain. “You forget the babby.”

“I’ll tell you what to do,” said Pat, as a bright thought struck him; “bring the baby wid you.”

Captain Corbet stared for a moment at Pat in silent horror.

“What!” he cried, “bring him with me! Expose that per-recious head to the evenin damp! Why, d’ye think I’m made of iron?”

Pat at this gave up, and began to despair of moving Corbet from his house.

“If ye o’ny knowed,” said he, at last, resuming his effort,—“if ye o’ny knowed what it was, ye’d go fast enough.”

“Knowed what it was? Why, didn’t you say what it was?”

“Not me, sure.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Niver a bit of it.”

“You said it was a testimonial.”

“Well, an did I tell you what kind of a testimonial it wor? Not me.”

“Wal, tell me now.”

“Will ye go if I do?”

“How can I go?”

“Take the baby along wid ye, sure. It’s aisy enough.”

“That thar’s not possible. I’ll tell you. Wait, and p’aps the ole ’oman ’ll be hum soon.”

“Wait? But we can’t wait. It must be done the night.”

“What?”

“Sure, the businiss.”

“The testimonial? Why can’t it be kept?”

“You see, it’s a kind av a present; something that ye’ll value next to yer child, so ye will.”

“Dew tell. Wal, now, railly; why, what upon airth kin that be?” said Captain Corbet, whose curiosity began to be more excited than it had hitherto been.

“I’m not allowed to tell,” said Pat, mysteriously.

“Why, railly! Why, how extra particular! But come now, tell a leetle of it.”

“I can’t,” said Pat; “but if you want to know, ye must go to the wharf.”

“Somethin,” mused Captain Corbet. “Somethin you say that I’ll vally nex to my babby. Why, what upon airth kin it be? I declare I never was so cur’ous in my hull life; an you wun’t tell.”

“No,” said Pat.

“Wun’t?”

“No.”

“Honor bright?”

“Honor bright.”

“Wal, what kin I dew?” cried Captain Corbet. “I can’t leave the infant’s bedside. I couldn’t take ten steps away, and leave him here. What kin I do?”

“I’ll tell you,” cried Pat, at last, after some silence, and with an air of desperate determination. “I’ll stay wid him, and you go down.”

“You stay?”

“Yis, mesilf. He’s asleep. He won’t wake. I’ll rock him. It’ll be all right. And you hurry down, an hurry back.”

Captain Corbet looked a long time in doubt at Pat, meditating over this singular proposal.

“Wal,” said he, at last, “railly—it’s desput kind in you—but—a feyther’s feelins—air desput delicate things—but as you say—he’s asleep—bress his pooty face!—an he’ll stay asleep—and you’ll rock him—an watch over his infant slumbers. And I’m desput cur’ous—and so—why, railly, I declar’ ef I hain’t got half a mind to go—jest to please the boys.”

“Do,” said Pat, earnestly; “an make haste about it, too, for they’re dyin wid impatience, so they are.”

Captain Corbet gave an uneasy glance all around.

“Ah, come now, hurry up,” urged Pat, “an don’t be all night about it.”

“I feel dreadful oneasy,” said Captain Corbet, “about’ what I’m agoin for to do.”

“Onaisy, is it? Nonsense! Won’t I be here? Am I a Injin?”

“You’ll be kerful then—will ye?” said Captain Corbet, anxiously.

“Sure an I will.”

“An watch him?”

“Av coorse. But sure an he’s sleepin like a lamb; he’ll need no care or watchin.”

“An you think I railly may ventoor, jest to please the boys.”

“O, yis, av coorse; on’y don’t wait any longer.”

Captain Corbet drew a deep breath, as though to summon up all his fortitude for the ordeal before him.

“Wal,” he said, “I will. I’ll make the plunge. But be kerful; watch. An of he stirs, rock him; an ef he stirs more, rock him harder; but ef he stirs more, so as to be likely to wake, you must sing to him; an ef he actilly doos wake, then you’ll have to take him up and nuss him. Ef he still con-tennoos to wail,”—and here the captain’s voice faltered,—“you must walk up and down with him; ef he don’t stop then, sing and play with the furnitoor; and finally, ef nothin else’ll quiet him, thar’s his bowl an his bessed supper on the table, an you must feed him. But how can I bar to leave him, and trust all this to you—?”

“O, nonsense!” cried Pat; “sure an he won’t wake at all, at all; an if he does, I’ll do everythin that you say, an more by the same token.”

“You will?”

“Av coorse.”

“Then I think I may ventoor,” said Captain Corbet.

“Do, an be quick. Ah, now, none of that,” cried Pat, as the fond father stooped over the cradle of his infant. “Sure ye’ll wake him, so ye will. Hurry off.”

“Wal, I was just goin to kiss him—but p’aps I’d better not,—so I’ll go.”

And with these words Captain Corbet tore himself away from the cradle, and left the house.

He walked with rapid strides, yet his breast was a prey to contending feelings. On the one hand, he was exceedingly curious to know what it was that the boys had for him, and he was also anxious to gratify them; but then, on the other hand, he was disturbed about his baby, and full of fear lest some evil might befall him during his absence. His progress, which at first was rapid, soon slackened, and then grew slower, and finally stopped altogether. He turned irresolutely, and looked back. But all was still. This encouraged him to resume his journey. Again and again he turned and looked back, and each time he was reassured. At last he descended the hill, and his home could no longer be seen. Even then he stopped, and looked back several times, as though he expected that a cry from his deserted infant might meet his ears. But no cry came, and he went on. At length he came to the village, and finding himself thus far committed to his journey, he concluded that it would be better to make haste, so as to be back as soon as possible. With this resolve he set off at a run, and soon reached the wharf.

Scarcely had he made his appearance when a wild cheer arose. At first the captain could see nothing but a crowd of boys, who gathered round him, shouting and cheering. Partly inquisitive and partly bewildered, he looked from one to the other with inquiring yet puzzled glances, and said not a word. But the boys did not keep him long in suspense. Thronging around him, they took his arms, and half led, half urged him onward to the river bank, where full before him floated the Antelope. Even then, perhaps, Captain Corbet might not have noticed the schooner, had it not been for the cries and gestures of the boys.

The effect of this sudden and unexpected sight, as he realized its meaning, was overwhelming. He started, he stared, he rubbed his eyes, he looked at the boys, then at the Antelope, then at the boys again, and then once more at the Antelope. He could not speak a word. He stared in utter amazement. His belief in her complete and hopeless loss had been perfect; and now to see her floating before him was an overwhelming sight that deprived him of the power of speech. His emotion was so great that his aged form trembled visibly. He burst into tears; and then turning towards the boys without speaking a word, he went around among them, shaking hands with every one of them most earnestly.

“Thar,” said he, at last, as he drew a long breath, “I don’t think I ever in all my born days saw a day like this here. An who did it? Did youns do it all—every bit?”

“We did some of it,” said Bart; “but it was Captain Pratt that did the most of it. If it hadn’t been for him, it couldn’t have been done at all.”

“Captain Pratt? Bless his benevolent sperrit; Take me to him. Whar is he? I want to thank him.”

“O, he’s up in the village somewhere.”

“An so this was the occasion you wanted me for? Wal, railly. And here’s the Antelope—an here am I gazing upon her well-remembered form!”

Captain Corbet spoke these words meditatively, and then made an effort to climb on board. This he soon succeeded in doing. Thereupon he feasted his eyes upon the schooner, examining her in every part.

“Muddy,” said he, solemnly. “Muddy, yet lively, and fit for more vyges, so soon as you get rigged up and repaired.”

“Boys,” he continued, after a long ............