expand nobly, and rise above his prudential considerations, and drown
them sometimes; and he was the sort of person, who, if the fancy were
strong enough, might marry in haste, and repent--and make his wife, too,
repent--at leisure.

'What do you laugh at, Charlie?' said Wylder, grinning himself.

'At your confounded grumbling, Mark. The luckiest dog in England! Will
nothing content you?'

'Why, I grumble very little, I think, considering how well off I am,'
rejoined he, with a laugh.

'Grumble! If you had a particle of gratitude, you'd build a temple to
Fortune--you're pagan enough for it, Mark.'

'Fortune has nothing to do with it,' says Mark, laughing again.

'Well, certainly, neither had you.'

'It was all the Devil. I'm not joking, Charlie, upon my word, though I'm
laughing.' (Mark swore now and then, but I take leave to soften his
oaths). 'It was the Persian Magician.'

'Come, Mark, say what you mean.'

'I mean what I say. When we were in the Persian Gulf, near six years ago,
I was in command of the ship. The captain, you see, was below, with a
hurt in his leg. We had very rough weather--a gale for two days and a
night almost--and a heavy swell after. In the night time we picked up