It was on the second night, after we were come to anchor in the
Downs awaiting a favorable wind, that I, having fallen asleep while
wishing Nathaniel Peacock might have been with us, was awakened
by the pressure of a cold hand upon my cheek. I was near to crying
aloud with fear, for the first thought that came was that Master
Hunt had gone from this world, and was summoning me; but before
the cry could escape my lips, I heard the whispered words: "It is
me, Nate Peacock!"

It can well be guessed that I was sitting bolt upright in the
narrow bed, which sailors call a bunk, by the time this had been
said, and in the gloom of the seamen's living place I saw a head
close to mine.

Not until I had passed my hands over the face could I believe it
was indeed my comrade, and it goes without saying that straightway
I insisted on knowing how he came there, when he should have been
in London town.

I cannot set the story down as Nathaniel Peacock told it to me on
that night, because his words were many; but the tale ran much like
this:



NATHANIEL'S STORY


When Captain John Smith had promised on Cheapside that I should