Captain Crowe, whose faculty of speech had been all this time absorbed in
amazement, now broke into the conversation with a volley of
interjections. "Split my snatchblock!--Odd's firkin!--Splice my old
shoes!--I have sailed the salt seas, brother, since I was no higher than
the Triton's taffrel--east, west, north, and south, as the saying is--
Blacks, Indians, Moors, Morattos, and Seapoys;--but, smite my timbers!
such a man of war"

Here he was interrupted by his nephew, Tom Clarke, who had disappeared at
the knight's first entrance, and now produced himself with an eagerness
in his look, while the tears stared in his eyes.--"Lord bless my soul!"
cried he, "I know that gentleman, and his servant, as well as I know my
own father!--I am his own godson, uncle; he stood for me when he was a
boy--yes, indeed, sir, my father was steward to the estate--I may say I
was bred up in the family of Sir Everhard Greaves, who has been dead
these two years--this is the only son, Sir Launcelot; the best-natured,
worthy, generous gentleman--I care not who knows it. I love him as well
as if he was my own flesh and blood"

At this period, Tom, whose heart was of the melting mood, began to sob
and weep plenteously, from pure affection. Crowe, who was not very
subject to these tendernesses, d---ed him for a chicken-hearted lubber;
repeating, with much peevishness, "What dost cry for? what dost cry for,
noddy?" The surgeon, impatient to know the story of Sir Launcelot, which
he had heard imperfectly recounted, begged that Mr. Clarke would compose
himself, and relate it as circumstantially as his memory would retain the
particulars; and Tom, wiping his eyes, promised to give him that
satisfaction; which the reader, if he be so minded, may partake in the
next chapter.