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Chapter Nine
The Adventure in the Forest
“You are wounded, poor stranger,” cried Beebee compassionately. “Are you much hurt?”
She spoke in English.
“I fear I am a little,” was the faint reply. “They have attacked and robbed me, and they have slain my faithful servant, and, indeed, they left me here for dead.”
“But pray,” he continued, “save yourselves, young ladies. The bandits may quickly come again.”
This was no time for false modesty. The poor fellow was bleeding to death. But Miss Morgan had that which no English man or woman should be without. She possessed a little skill in surgery.
So with her own handkerchief, and that of Beebee’s, she quickly staunched the bleeding, then commanded her patient to lie flat upon the grass in order to lessen the force of the circulation.
“And now,” said Beebee, “what are we to do? We cannot take this poor stranger to the palace. Jazr would kill him, and father would kill me.”
Here Beebee blushingly restored her veil to its place.
“But,” she continued, “we cannot leave him thus to perish here in the wilderness. I have it, dear governess. Ride back quickly, and at once, to the house of the priest, and cause him to send immediately his servants with a litter. At the priest’s house the stranger will be safe, and the good priest himself will be well rewarded.”
“But, Beebee, my dear pupil, will you not be afraid?”
“No, no, no,” cried Beebee, and at that moment I thought my little mistress looked all a queen. She spoke to Miss Morgan impatiently, almost imperiously.
“Go immediately,” she cried, “ride as hard as you safely can. Do not fear for me. I shall be safe until you return.”
Next minute Miss Morgan mounted her horse and quickly disappeared.
The stranger seemed slightly better now, that he was no longer losing blood, and would have tried to sit up in order to talk, but Beebee held up a warning finger.
“You must rest,” she said. “Miss Morgan would be displeased were you to sit up.”
He obeyed as if he had been a child.
Although pale and sickly-looking with the loss of blood, very handsome indeed was this stranger, dark brown hair cut short, a dark moustache, well-chiselled features, and beautiful eyes, quite as blue as mine, Warlock.
“You have saved my life,” he murmured. “May I ask whom I have to thank, and who is Miss Morgan?”
“I am the only daughter of an officer of the Shah,” said Beebee. “I have no mother. I may say I have no father. He – he is travelling now to Europe with our great king. Miss Morgan is the dearest friend I have on earth; an English lady who came to me as a companion, and to teach me your beautiful language.”
“You speak it well, Miss – ”
“They simply call me Beebee.”
“May God bless and keep you, Beebee, for ever and ay. You have to-day saved my life, and I feel very grateful. A soldier should ever be ready to die. But if he is doomed to be slain he should fall in battle, with his back to the field and his feet to the foe, and not by the hand of wretched bandits, who stab men to death for a few handfuls of gold.”
“You are a soldier then? But you wear no uniform? You carry no arms?”
The wounded officer smiled feebly.
“I have been travelling for my health in your lovely country. It is not usual for British soldiers to wear uniforms or carry swords when not on duty.”
“And your name, brave soldier?”
“How know you I am brave?”
“You must be brave,” said Beebee innocently and naïvely, “because you are handsome, nay, even as beautiful as my father. Yes, you are brave, Mr – ”
“My name is Edgar.”
“It is a strange name, but somewhat musical. Edgar, I shall often think of you. I may even dream of you, but I shall dream of you and think of you as you must appear in battle leading on your men to storm a breach. But now, talk no longer lest you faint with weakness.”
“One question more, lady. You are going to have me taken to the house of a priest. But where do you yourself dwell?”
“Oh, many miles from here.”
“But will you never come to see me? My wounds may take many weeks to heal.”
“I do not know.”
Beebee’s eyes were downcast now. She was petting and smoothing my head, Warlock.
“I shall die if you do not come sometimes to see me.”
“I shall send Miss Morgan, she is English.”
“I will die if you do not accompany her.”
“Then you must live. Oh, I would not have you die on any account. Now, be still. See, I have a little book of English poems. This is ‘The Lady of the Lake.’ I will read to you.”
Beebee sat herself innocently down on the grass close beside the wounded stranger, and in her sweet musical young voice commenced to read that romantic and spirited poem, while Edgar listened, his eyes on her face, or on the portion of it visible.
She read on and on and on, and the time flew quietly, quickly past.
Presently, however, her quick ears detected the sound of horses’ hoofs, soft though their footfall was upon the long greensward.
“They come,” she cried, rising, and just at that moment the boughs were dashed aside, and Miss Morgan entered the glade, speedily followed by four or five men bearing a litter. The priest himself was with them.
“Ah!” he said in French, “one poor fellow has had his coup de grace. He has gone, I trust, to a better world than this; but you, Monsieur – ”
Me bent down and felt Edgar’s pulse, long and anxiously.
A finely-formed man was this French Catholic priest. Very tall, brown with the sun, and bearded.
“You will live,” he said. “You have youth and strength, and you shall have rest and quiet. All will combine to restore you.”
“Thank Heaven,” said Beebee.
She was bending down over me, and I noticed that she was weeping. I licked her hand, and she then took me up and embraced me.
Very gently indeed was the wounded stranger placed on that litter of soft green boughs and borne away, to the priest’s house.
This house was on the edge of the forest, built on a green brae-land at the head of a bushy dell or glen, adown which went a silver thread of a river winding in and winding out among its green banks, and forming many a rapid and cascade ere it finally disappeared and rolled on in its search for the sea.
Edgar was surprised at the comfort and even elegance of everything about the French Catholic priest’s house, and that evening, as the good man sat by his bedside, he took occasion to express his wonderment in as delicate language as he could command.
“You think it strange that I should dwell here almost alone. Ah! but, dear sir, I have a mission. I fill a niche. I think I even do good, and have taught souls to find Christ. The present Shah is tolerant of religions not his own, else would I soon be banished.
“You were surprised also, dear young sir,” he continued, “at the deftness with which I bound up your wound and dressed your bruises, but I was not always a priest. I was a surgeon. But I loved and I lost. Oh, it is a common story enough. Then I joined the priesthood and came here an exile, and almost a hermit, to cure souls and bodies. Yes, many seek my assistance, and I never refuse it. But, believe me, my dear sir, I can be just, as well as generous, and the scoundrels who attacked you and so basely murdered your servant shall not go unpunished. And now, my friend, go to sleep. You have nothing to do but get well.”
Edgar was in a burning fever next day nevertheless, and for nearly two weeks lay in bed hovering betwixt death and life.
When he recovered sufficiently to look about him, one beautiful afternoon, the evening sunshine stealing in through his window and falling on a bouquet of flowers beside him on the table, the first face he recognised was that of Miss Morgan.
She sat not far off, quietly embroidering a piece of work.
Seeing him awake and sensible, she approached his pillow smiling, and held something to his lips, which he swallowed without a murmur.
“How good you have been, dear Miss Morgan!” he murmured. “You have been near to me all the time. No, I have not been quite insensible. And Beebee, was she not here also?”
“She was. Sometimes. I myself have only come to see you now and then. We – we had a difficulty in getting away.”
“How good! How good! But the difficulty?”
“It is in the fact,” said Miss Morgan mournfully, “that my sweet young friend and pupil is sold to the Shah.”
“Sold to the Shah!” cried Edgar. “She, a mere child, so beautiful, so winning! Oh, Miss Morgan, I have dreamt of her every hour, and indeed – I – I – have got to love her. And she is gone. Oh, how horrible!”
“Nay, nay, you misunderstand me somewhat. Beebee has not gone. She is but promised to the Sultan or King. When she comes of age, or rather when she is two years older, then – she will be a slave indeed. Oh, I assure you, sir, it breaks my heart to lose her.”
At this moment the door quietly opened, and Beebee herself entered, followed by the priest-physician. She started slightly when she noticed that Edgar was now awake and sensible.
He held out his hand. It was a very thin and a very white one.
“I know all, Beebee,” he said. “I cannot thank you enough for your kindness, and you have come to me at great risk too. I understand what that risk has been, and I understand also Persian laws and Persian fathers. You have risked your honour and your life.”
“I could not help coming,” said Beebee innocently, “because I thought you would die. But now, we must part. We must never meet again. It is fate.”
“Must it, indeed, be so?” said Edgar gloomily.
“Indeed, I fear it must,” put in Miss Morgan.
“And I,” said Edgar. “I – am a soldier. I must try not to repine. But I cannot bear to think that we shall never meet again. I will pray that it may be otherwise, and that there may be happy days yet in store for you, Beebee – may I even say for us.”
He paused for a moment.
Beebee was silent, and weeping quietly as women-folks do, Warlock.
I had jumped up on the couch where poor Edgar lay, and was rubbing my head against his shoulder.
“This cat, Beebee,” continued Edgar, “is she very dear to you?”
“She is a friend. Poor Shireen! Sometimes when I am solitary and alone her affection and kindness is a great solace to me. But she is very young.”
She had drawn closer to the couch, and was patting my head.
“I think she loves me,” she added.
“I think,” said Edgar, touching her hand lightly, “this puss, Shireen, is a medium. Else how could you have read my thoughts?”
“Shireen is yours.”
“But I dare not deprive you of a friend so good and beautiful.”
“Nay, nay, do not speak thus. She will be a soldier’s cat.”
“On one condition only shall I accept the gift, Beebee.”
“And that condition?”
“That I may be permitted to bring her back to you at some future time. Within two years, Beebee?”
Once more he touched her hand.
“Two years,” she said, as if speaking to herself. “I will be dead ere then.”
“Nay, nay, nay,” he cried, almost fiercely, “for the wrong that your parents would do you must never be accomplished.”
“Speak no more, sir. Speak no more, Edgar.”
“Adieu, Edgar. Adieu, Shireen.”
“Adieu!”
Then they led her weeping away.
Did I ever see my sweet mistress again? Was that what you asked me, Warlock? Well, I will tell you another day. For see, my master is getting up to go. No, Vee-Vee, I do not want your convoy. Go home with master, and you, too, Dick and Warlock.
“Well, good afternoon, old friend,” said Colonel Clarkson, shaking hands with Uncle Ben. “You’ll come up to-morrow evening to the Castle, won’t you?”
“That will I. Ha, your old puss is off then.”
“Yes,” said the Colonel. “She has queer ways altogether. She is going now on a round of visits. I do wish she were not so old. We shall all miss poor Shireen when she dies. Good-day.”
Dick at once flew on to his master’s shoulder. Tabby cocked her tail and trotted along by his side, and the dogs followed.
It may seem strange to some readers that a starling should become so tame, but I wish the reader to remember that Dick is a study from the real life, and not a bird of the author’s imagination.
The road homewards was about two miles in all. During the walk Dick kept on his master’s shoulder until about half-way to the castle. They were then between two hedges, and just beyond was a field of turnips. Among these Dick knew right well he would find some of his favourite tit-bits, so without saying, by your leave, to his master, he flew off over the hedge.
Colonel Clarkson waited a reasonable time, but as Dick did not reappear, he bent down towards the Tabby cat and smoothed her.
“Go, find,” he said.
In a moment the cat was off through the hedge.
The Colonel listened with an amused smile on his face. He knew right well what would happen.
Then he heard Dick’s voice, and knew that pussy had found the truant.
“Eh? Eh? What is it?” These are his very words. “Tse, tse, tse! Sugar and snails! You r-r-rascal!”
Then back flew Dick to his master. Tabby herself appeared next minute, and the journey was resumed without further incident or adventure.
Meanwhile, where was Shireen?
When Shireen left Uncle Ben’s bungalow, she kept along inside the railing for some time. It was about the hour at which the butcher’s dog came out for his evening run, and Shireen knew right well he would be revenged on her if he possibly could, so she was determined not to give him the chance. But the coast was clear, and soon she was in the village. She trotted into the blacksmith’s shop, and he had a very kindly greeting for her, Shireen was very fond of spending half-an-hour with the blacksmith. Cats like pleasant people, and he was always laughing or singing, and often beating time to his song with the hammer on a red-hot horse-shoe, while the yellow sparks flew in all directions. Besides, there was always a nice fire here, and an air of comfort in the place – to Shireen’s way of thinking. She was a high-bred cat, it is true, and a cat of ancient lineage, as we know, but she was not at all aristocratic in the choice of her friends.
Shireen left the blacksmith at last, and went to see the sick child. It is strange, but true as well as strange, that cats never fail to sympathise with human beings in grief or suffering.
But little Tom Richards was better to-night, and sitting up in his chair by the fireside. He was delighted when Shireen came in, and made his mother place a saucer of milk down for her, and puss drank a little just to please the boy.
Then she permitted him to nurse her for quite a long time. Tom, child though he was, quite appreciated the value of this compliment; for although Shireen would permit a child to take her up, and even to pull her about and tease her, no grown-up person, with the exception of the Colonel and his wife, must dare to handle her.
But Shireen jumped down at last, and begged Tommy’s mother to open the door to her.
“Oh, don’t let pussy go yet!” pleaded the boy.
“I must, dear, I must,” said his mother, “else she may not come again.”
This was very true, for cats cannot bear restraint of any kind. If they are to be truly happy they must be allowed to go and come as they please.
Before going home Shireen had still another fireside to visit. And this was Emily’s.
A very humble hearth indeed; but poor Emily’s eyes sparkled with joy when Shireen came trotting in.
“Oh, Shireen dear, is it you?” she cried. “Oh, you beautiful good puss, and I haven’t seen you since Cracker nearly killed the butcher’s dog. Look, pussy, here is Cracker.”
Yes, there was Cracker, sure enough, and the dog and cat at once exchanged courtesies. Had you seen them lying together in front of the fire a few minutes after this, reader, you would never again have made use of that silly phrase – a cat and dog life. Cats and dogs, if brought up together, do agree. It is mankind that causes them to be enemies. A dog is far too noble an animal to touch a cat, unless he has been trained to look upon her as vermin.
“You see, I’m very busy to-night, Shireen,” said Emily. “Mending stockings for father. But baby is asleep, and so I have all the evening to myself, for I have already done my lessons.”
Poor Emily! her life was a somewhat hard one. Her mother had died but recently, and her father, who was only a labouring man, had been left all alone with Emily and her baby sister. All day long the child was taken care of by a neighbour, but as soon as school was dismissed Emily went for her, and then her work, indeed, began. Board Schools, as a rule, are a benefit to the nation, but there are cases when compulsory attendance falls heavy on children and parents too.
Emily’s father was sitting on the other side of the fire smoking his humble clay.
He bent down and stroked the cat.
“Ay, pussy,” he said, “Emily is very busy, and the Lord Himself knows what I should do without her. The Lord be thankit for a good kind daughter.”
So Shireen sat there nodding and singing by the fire, until she sang herself asleep. But when Emily arose at last, she asked to go, and her request was immediately granted.
“Good-night, pussy,” said Emily. “Mind to come again.”
And while pussy went trotting homewards through the darkness of a starless autumn night, Emily went in to prepare her father’s supper.
No, it is true, Emily was not a very good-looking girl, but she had a right kind heart of her own. And this is even better than beauty.
Chapter Ten
We Sailed Away to the South
Well, children, said Shireen, a few nights after, when she and her friends were once more all around the low and cheerful fire, the Colonel as usual in his place by the table, and Uncle Ben, cockatoo on shoulder, in an easy-chair. Well, children, here we are as cosy as cosy can be; and when I see you all beside me, and the fire blinking and burning so cheerily, I feel so happy all over that I can hardly express myself, even in song.
“But hear how the wind is howling to-night!” said Tabby, looking towards the window.
“Tse, tse, tse!” said Dick, as if much impressed.
Warlock simply sat on one end, looking thoughtfully into the fire. Wind or weather did not trouble Warlock much, he was as much at home among the heather on a wild winter’s day with the snow two feet deep, and clouds of ice-dust blowing, as he was among the wild flowers in dingle, dell, or forest, when summer was in its prime.
The truth is, Warlock was one of Scotland’s own dogs, and these you know, are as hardy as the hills.
It was concerning this same doggie, Warlock, that the author once wrote the following lines. They were in answer to a Highland friend, who enquired through the medium of a well-known journal, if he knew the Aberdeen terrier. The verses are truly descriptive of this brave breed of dog, whether they possess any other merit or not is very little matter.
Warlock.
I ken the Terrier o’ the North,
I ken the towsy tyke;
Ye’ll search frae Tweed to Sussex shore,
But never find his like.
For pluck and pith, and jaws and teeth,
And hair like heather cowes (stems);
Wi’ body lang and low, and strang,
At hame on cairns (heaps of stone and rubbish) and knowes.
He’ll face a foumart (polecat), draw a brock (badger),
Kill rats and whitterits (weasels) by the score;
He’ll bang tod-lowrie (the fox) frae his hole,
Or fight him at his door.
He’ll range for days and ne’er be tired,
O’er mountain, moor, or fell;
Fair-play, I think, the dear wee chap
Would fecht the deil himsel’.
And yet beneath his rugged coat,
A heart beats warm and true;
He’ll help to herd the sheep and kye,
And mind the lammies (young lambs) too.
Then see him at the ingle side,
Wi’ bairnies round him laughin’;
Was ever dog sae pleased as he,
Sae fond o’ fun and daffin? (Joking)
But gie’s your han’, my Hielan man,
In troth! we manna sever;
Then here’s to Scotia’s best o’ dogs,
Our towsy (rough and unkempt in coat) tyke for ever.
On this particular evening Warlock’s boots were somewhat muddy. Tabby’s had also been the same, though she had taken pains to clean them before coming to the fireside. The muddiness of their boots, however, only pointed to the fact that the two friends had enjoyed a rare day’s sport in the woods, or by the water’s side.
Well, said Shireen, as to the wind, I do not dislike hearing it, when I am indoors, nor hearing the rain rattling against the window panes either. I always think the fire burns brighter on a night like this. Besides, the howling and howthering of the storm carries my thoughts back to the golden days of my youth, and to the events of my life at sea.
Shireen paused for a moment with one snow-white paw raised thoughtfully in the air.
“Warlock,” she said, next minute, “what do you see in the fire?”
“Me?” said Warlock, rousing himself out of his reverie.
“Me, Shireen? Oh, I see a water-rat’s hole down under the banks of a dark brown stream, and I can see the water rats pop in and out. There, look, I see one now standing on end at the other side of the bank, rubbing the water out of his eyes with the back of his knuckles, the better to look over at me and Tabby.”
“What do you see, Mother Shireen?” said Vee-Vee.
I see a ship, my son, tossing hither and thither on the far-off Indian Ocean. I see the waves breaking in snowy spray, high, high against her jet-black sides. I see the racing waves curling their angry crests as they roll on towards the rugged horizon. I see dark storm clouds sweeping swift across the sky, with rifts of blue between, through which pours now and then a glint of sunshine.
“Mother Shireen, you were on that ship?” said Tabby, “tell us.”
Yes, Tabby, I was on that ship. And dear master too. Last evening I told you how my sweet little mistress Beebee, had given me away to the wounded officer before she bade him adieu.
I was vexed to lose her. I would, I thought, never, never see my old home again; never more lie on summer evenings on the turret balcony, watching with Beebee the sunlight and shade chasing each other across the dreamy woods, and the birds wheeling far beneath us in giddy flight. When Beebee had really gone, I scarce could believe that we were parted. I could not realise my loss at first. I went to the door and mewed, I jumped up into the window-sill, and examined the fastening of the jalousies.
“Shireen, come to me. Come, puss, come.”
I looked quickly around, and my eyes fell on the face of the soldier Edgar.
He looked wan and worn and old. Though but little more than six-and-twenty, and that is young for a man, he appeared to me in his grief and loneliness to be about sixty.
My heart went out to him at once. Oh, Tabby, I do believe that if human beings would only bear in mind, how sickness or helplessness in one of their race appeals to us poor cats, and how we love the feeble, the ill, and the old, as well as dear children, they would often be kinder to us. But this is a digression.
I jumped down from the window, and with a fond cry leapt up on the couch where soldier Edgar lay.
I was singing now.
I have often observed that the song of a cat seems to soothe a human being’s soul and calm his nerves, continued Shireen. Well, I had a duty to perform to this poor sick soldier, and I was determined to do it.
What is duty, did you ask, Warlock? Well, it is a word I have borrowed from the human race. It means the doing of that which you have been told off to do, and that it is your business to do. Strangely enough human beings usually want to be preached at before they can tackle their duty – if I may be excused for talking sailor fashion – while we cats and dogs, yes, and birds, Dick, feel impelled to duty by our own instincts only. But I had already become fond of soldier Edgar, because I knew my mistress liked him.
“Shireen,” he said, smoothing me but smiling, “you must not mourn too much for your mistress. She is not gone quite away, because she dwells here in my heart, Shireen. So we will often think of her together. I will love you for her sake, and you will love me for her sake. That is mutuality, pussy, so there! Now sit by me and sing, and I will sleep and awake calm and refreshed. I want to get better soon now, Shireen, because I intend coming back here again if possible, and take Beebee your mistress away. I want to save her from a fearful doom.”
I hardly know how the time passed after this for a month, during which time new master and I lived in the house of the priest.
But by this time master was strong and well again. Then came the day of parting.
The priest rode with us a very long way through the forest, and told us which way was the nearest to the city. Then we said – Farewell.
But the priest’s last words as he held Edgar’s hand were these: “If it be in my power to prevent it, my friend, depend upon it Beebee shall never enter the palace of the Shah!”
“May Heaven bless you,” said the soldier. He said no more. I do not think he could have done so had he tried, for tears seemed to rise and choke him.
Well, the next thing I distinctly remember, is being taken on board a man-o’-war ship from a boat that left the Apollo Bunder at Bombay.
I had one regret just then, for my thoughts reverted to Beebee in her turret chamber. I imagined her sitting there all alone with Miss Morgan, and gazing dreamily over the sea, the sea she so longed to float upon.
But once on board the ship I had little time to think very much, at first at all events. Everything was very new and very strange to me; and it would take me some time to get up to the ropes, you know, Warlock.
“Oh!” said Warlock, “we dogs don’t bother about ropes. When we come to a new home or house we just settle down there. All we want to know is where the door is.”
Ah! Warlock, yes, that I know is true. But think how different a dog’s life is from that of a poor cat. We cats have got to be wise, Warlock, and we’ve got to be wily, for though we have not got the brand of Cain upon our brows, still almost everybody who meets us wants to kill us.
It was on this very subject that only last Sunday I was conversing with the parson’s big tom-cat.
“I’m so much used to travelling now, Tom,” I said, “having had a spell of over twenty years of it, that I don’t mind where I go; but if I were not a travelling cat I should feel very much from home in a new house, not knowing the outs and ins of it, the upstairs and the down, and where to get food, where to watch for mice, and the drains to run into when the school children come past; or the trees to run up when the butcher’s dog comes round the corner.”
“Well, for many reasons,” said Tom in answer, “I like dogs well enough. But I wouldn’t like to be a dog, mind you, Shireen. Now look at me for example. I am the parson’s cat to be sure, and being a parson’s cat people might think I was under some restrictions. Not a bit of it, Shireen. I’m my own master.
“Now, look for example, at the Saint Bernard dog Dumpling – an honest contented great fellow he is – but bless you, Shireen, he isn’t free. But I am. Dumpling can’t do what he pleases – I can. I can go to bed when I like, rise when I like, and eat and drink when, where, and what I choose. Dumpling can’t. Really, Shireen, my old friend, I can forgive Dumpling for chasing me into the apple tree last Sunday, when I think of the dull life a dog leads, and how few are his joys compared to mine. Poor Dumpling needs the servants to wait upon him. He can’t walk a couple of miles by himself and be sure of finding his way back, or sure of not getting into a row, getting stolen, or some other accident equally ridiculous.
“The other day, Shireen, if you’ll take my word for it, Dumpling actually sat on the doorstep for two hours in the pouring, pitiless rain till his great shaggy coat was soaked to the skin, because, forsooth, he didn’t know how to get the door opened. Would a cat have done that? No, a cat would have walked politely up to the first kind-faced passenger that came along and asked him to be good enough to ring the bell, and the thing would have been done. Could Dumpling unlatch a door or catch a mouse? Not to save his life. Could he climb a tree and examine a sparrow’s nest? Not he. Could he find his way home over the tiles on a dark night? A pretty figure he would cut if he were only going to try. No, Shireen, dogs have their uses, but they’re not in the same standard with cats.”
Well, Warlock, mind these are Tom’s views and not mine: but as I was telling you all, I found myself safe on board the Venom at last, and that same afternoon we sailed away to the south.
Master being still somewhat of an invalid, the doctor had given him and me the use of his cabin, he himself sleeping at night inside a canvas screen on the main deck.
The Venom, I must tell you, wasn’t a very large ship, and she was engaged in what fighting human-sailors called the suppression of the slave trade. Not that I meant to trouble my head very much about any such nonsense, only in one way it appealed to us; it would make our passage down to the far-off Cape of Good Hope and so home to England a very much longer one.
“You see,” the captain said to my soldier Edgar on the quarter-deck the first day, “we are awfully glad to have you with us, but we can’t hurry even on your account.”
“I wouldn’t wish you to do so, Captain Beecroft. The long voyage will do me a wonderful deal of good; besides I don’t really long to be home. I’d rather be back in Persia again.”
The captain looked at him somewhat searchingly and smiled.
I was walking up and down with the pair of them, with my tail in the air and looking very contented and pleased, because the sun was shining so brightly, and the ocean, which I could catch peeps at through the port-holes, was as blue as lapis lazuli.
“I say,” said the captain, “did you lose your heart out there?”
“I did,” was the reply. “Oh, I am ten years older than Beebee, and perhaps more, and nothing may ever come of it. Put, sir, she saved my life.”
“Do you see this cat?” he continued, taking me up in his arms. “Well, this is Shireen. The girl who so bravely saved my life gave Shireen to me.”
“Wait a minute,” said Captain Beecroft. “Come into my cabin here. Now sit down and just tell me all the story.”
Edgar did so, and I think that from that moment these two men were fast friends.
My master also showed the captain the beautiful little ruby that was set in my tooth.
