tough blow on his sleek sides, as the young lad turned away. "Don't you
see the young gentleman a-swabbing his eyes, and note his black clothes?"

"What do you mean, Captain Franks, by laying your hand on your owners?
Mr. George is the heir; I know the Colonel's will well enough."

"Mr. George is there," said the Captain, pointing with his thumb to the
deck.

"Where?" cries the factor.

"Mr. George is there!" reiterated the Captain, again lifting up his
finger towards the topmast, or the sky beyond. "He is dead a year, sir,
come next 9th of July. He would go out with General Braddock on that
dreadful business to the Belle Riviere. He and a thousand more never came
back again. Every man of them was murdered as he fell. You know the
Indian way, Mr. Trail?" And here the Captain passed his hand rapidly
round his head. "Horrible! ain't it, sir? horrible! He was a fine young
man, the very picture of this one; only his hair was black, which is now
hanging in a bloody Indian wigwam. He was often and often on board of the
Young Rachel, and would have his chests of books broke open on deck
before they was landed. He was a shy and silent young gent: not like this
one, which was the merriest, wildest young fellow, full of his songs and
fun. He took on dreadful at the news; went to his bed, had that fever
which lays so many of 'em by the heels along that swampy Potomac, but
he's got better on the voyage: the voyage makes every one better; and, in
course, the young gentleman can't be for ever a-crying after a brother
who dies and leaves him a great fortune. Ever since we sighted Ireland he
has been quite gay and happy, only he would go off at times, when he was
most merry, saying, 'I wish my dearest Georgy could enjoy this here sight