Little was said as they walked an hour or more towards the west, the
stranger apparently brooding upon his indignities, and twice passing
around the jug of brandy which Jack Wonnell was made to carry, and
before noon they came to a considerable creek, out in which was anchored
a small vessel bearing on her stern in illiterate, often inverted,
letters the name: _Ellenora Dennis_.
"What's that glibe on yonder?" asked Johnson, pointing to the letters.
"That's his mother's name, boss," Jack Wonnell said, hitching at the
stranger's breeches, "she's a widder, an' purty as a peach."
"Ain't you got no daddy, pore pap-lap?" Johnson asked coarsely.
"He's gone sence I was a baby," Levin answered; "he went on Judge
Custis's uncle's privateer that never was heard of no mo'. We don't know
if the British tuk him an' hanged him, or if the _Idy_ sunk somewhair
an' drowned him, or if she's a-sailin' away off. I has to take care of
mother."
"Humph!" growled Joe Johnson; "son of a gander and a gilflirt: purty
kid, too--got the ole families into him. No better loll for me!"
Drawing a punt concealed under some marsh brush, young Levin pushed off
to his vessel, made her tidy by a few changes, pulled up the jib, and
brought her in to the bank.
"Mr. Johnson, I never ketched tarrapin of a Sunday befo', but I reckon
tain't no harm."
"Harm? what's that?" Joe Johnson sneered. "Hark ye, boy, no funking with
me now! When I begin with a kinchin cove I starts squar.
Pages:
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210