there's nothing that compares with it for real, hearty pleasure; is
there, John? You seem a bit dazed, John: it's too good to be true,
you think? Well, it shows your good heart; shows what I call real
feeling. But you always were a true friend, always the one to depend
upon, eh, John? Why don't you speak, John, and say how glad you are
to see your old friend back, alive and hearty?"

John's lips were trembling, and something seemed working in his
throat, but no sound came.

"Ah, John, you were always the one for feeling a thing, and now the
joy is too much for you. Considerate, too, it was of you, and really
kind--but that's you, John, all over--to wear an old shipmate's cap
in affectionate memory. No, John, don't deprive yourself of it."

The wretched man felt with quivering fingers for the cap, took it
off and laid it on the rock beside me, but never spoke.

"And who is the boy, John? But, there, you were always one to
make friends. Everybody loves you; they can't help themselves.
Lucy loved you when she wouldn't look at me, would she? You were
always so gentle and quiet, John, except perhaps when the drink was
in you: and even then you didn't mean any harm; it was only your
play, wasn't it, John?"

John's face was a shade whiter, and again something worked in his
throat, but still he uttered no word.

"Well, anyhow, John, it's a real treat to see you--and looking so
well, too. To think that we two, of all men, should have been on the