The astonishment depicted in the Captain’s features positively frightened Mr. Toots, whose eyes were quite fixed by it, so that he could not withdraw them from his face.
“Write!” echoed the Captain. “Write, Sol Gills?”
“Ay,” said the old man, “either to Barbados, or Jamaica, or Demerara. That was what I asked.”
“What you asked, Sol Gills?” repeated the Captain.
“Ay,” said the old man. “Don’t you know, Ned? Sure you have not forgotten? Every time I wrote to you.”
The Captain took off his glazed hat, hung it on his hook, and smoothing his hair from behind with his hand, sat gazing at the group around him: a perfect image of wondering resignation.
“You don’t appear to understand me, Ned!” observed old Sol.
“Sol Gills,” returned the Captain, after staring at him and the rest for a long time, without speaking, “I’m gone about and adrift. Pay out a word or two respecting them adwenturs, will you! Can’t I bring up, nohows? Nohows?” said the Captain, ruminating, and staring all round.
“You know, Ned,” said Sol Gills, “why I left here. Did you open my packet, Ned?”
“Why, ay, ay,” said the Captain. “To be sure, I opened the packet.”
“And read it?” said the old man.
“And read it,” answered the Captain, eyeing him attentively, and proceeding to quote it from memory. “ ‘My dear Ned Cuttle, when I left home for the West Indies in forlorn search of intelligence of my dear—’ There he sits! There’s Wal’r!” said the Captain, as if he were relieved by getting hold of anything that was real and indisputable.
“Well, Ned. Now attend a moment!” said the old man. “When I wrote first—that was from Barbados—I said that though you would receive that letter long before the year was out, I should be glad if you would open the packet, as it explained the reason of my going away. Very good, Ned. When I wrote the second, third, and perhaps the fourth times—that was from Jamaica—I said I was in just the same state, couldn’t rest, and couldn’t come away from that part of the world, without knowing that my boy was lost or saved. When I wrote next—that, I think, was from Demerara, wasn’t it?”
“That he thinks was from Demerara, warn’t it!” said the Captain, looking hopelessly round.
“—I said,” proceeded old Sol, “that still there was no certain information got yet. That I found many captains and others, in that part of the world, who had known me for years, and who assisted me with a passage here and there, and for whom I was able, now and then, to do a little in return, in my own craft. That everyone was sorry for me, and seemed to take a sort of interest in my wanderings; and that I began to think it would be my fate to cruise about in search of tidings of my boy, until I died.”
“Began to think as how he was a scientific Flying Dutchman!” said the Captain, as before, and with great seriousness.
“But when the news come one day, Ned—that was to Barbados, after I got back there—that a China trader home’ard bound had been spoke, that had my boy aboard, then, Ned, I took passage in the next ship and came home; arrived at home tonight to find it true, thank God!” said the old man, devoutly.
The Captain, after bowing his head with great reverence, stared all round the circle, beginning with Mr. Toots, and ending with the Instrument-maker; then gravely said:
“Sol Gills! The observation as I’m a-going to make is calc’lated to blow every stitch of sail as you can carry, clean out of the bolt-ropes, and bring you on your beam ends with a lurch. Not one of them letters was ever delivered to Ed’ard Cuttle. Not one o’ them letters,” repeated the Captain, to make his declaration the more solemn and impressive, “was ever delivered unto Ed’ard Cuttle, Mariner, of England, as lives at home at ease, and doth improve each shining hour!”
“And posted by my own hand! And directed by my own hand, Number nine Brig Place!” exclaimed old Sol.
The colour all went out of the Captain’s face and all came back again in a glow.
“What do you mean, Sol Gills, my friend, by Number nine Brig Place?” inquired the Captain.
“Mean? Your lodgings, Ned,” returned the old man. “Mrs. What’s-her-name! I shall forget my own name next, but I am behind the present time—I always was, you recollect—and very much confused. Mrs.—”
“Sol Gills!” said the Captain, as if he were putting the most improbable case in the world, “it ain’t the name of MacStinger as you’re a trying to remember?”
“Of course it is!” exclaimed the Instrument-maker. “To be sure Ned. Mrs. MacStinger!”
Captain Cuttle, whose eyes were now as wide open as they would be, and the knobs upon whose face were perfectly luminous, gave a long shrill whistle of a most melancholy sound, and stood gazing at everybody in a state of speechlessness.
“Overhaul that there again, Sol Gills, will you be so kind?” he said at last.
“All these letters,” returned Uncle Sol, beating time with the forefinger of his right hand upon the palm of his left, with a steadiness and distinctness that might have done honour, even to the infallible chronometer in his pocket, “I posted with my own hand, and directed with my own hand, to Captain Cuttle, at Mrs. MacStinger’s, Number nine Brig Place.”
The Captain took his glazed hat off his hook, looked into it, put it on, and sat down.
“Why, friends all,” said the Captain, staring round in the last state of discomfiture, “I cut and run from there!”
“And no one knew where you were gone, Captain Cuttle?” cried Walter hastily.
“Bless your heart, Wal’r,” said the Captain, shaking his head, “she’d never have allowed o’ my coming to take charge o’ this here property. Nothing could
