Sydney frowned, and cracked a walnut till the shell and nut were all crushed together.

“And so you are to make up your mind to go to sea?”

“Yes,” said the admiral, emphatically.

“Certainly,” said Captain Belton; and, as soon after the conversation turned into political matters, Sydney quietly left his chair, strolled to the window, and stood gazing out at the estuary upon which the captain’s house looked down.

It was a glorious view. The long stretch of water was dappled with orange and gold; and here and there the great men-of-war were lying at anchor, some waiting their commanders; others, whose sea days were past, waiting patiently for their end, sent along dark shadows behind them. Here and there fishing-boats with tawny sails were putting out to sea for the night’s fishing; and as Sydney’s eyes wandered, a frown settled upon his forehead, and he stepped out through the open window into the garden.

“Bother the old sea!” he said, petulantly. “It’s always sea, sea, sea, from morning till night. I don’t want to go, and I won’t.”

As he spoke he passed under an apple tree, one of whose fruit, missed in the gathering a month before, had dropped, and picking it up, the boy relieved his feelings by throwing it with all his might across the garden.

The effect was as sudden as that produced by his kick; for there was a shout and sound of feet rapidly approaching, and a red-faced boy of about his own age came into sight, hatless and breathless, panting, wild-eyed, and with fists clenched ready for assault.

“Who threw—Oh, it was you, was it, Master Sydney? You coward!”

“Who’s a coward?” cried Sydney, hotly.

“You are. You throwed that apple and hit me, ’cause you knowed I dursen’t hit you again.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did, and you are a coward.”

“No, I’m not a coward.”

“Yes, you are. If I hit you, I know what you’d do—go and tell your father, and get me sent away.”

“There, then! Does that feel like a coward’s blow?—or that?—or that?”

Three sharp cuffs in the chest illustrated Sydney’s words, two of which the boy bore, flinching at each; but rising beyond endurance by the third, he retaliated with one so well planted that Sydney went down in a sitting position, but in so elastic a fashion that he was up again on the instant, and flew at the giver of the blow.

Then for five minutes there was a sharp encounter, with its accompaniments of hard breathing, muttering, dull sounds of blows and scuffling feet, till a broad-shouldered, red-faced man in a serge apron came down upon them at a trot, and securing each by the shoulder held them apart.

“Now then,” he growled, “what’s this here?”

“Pan hit me, and I’m dressing him down,” panted Sydney. “Here, let go, Barney.”

“Master Syd hit me first, father,” panted the red-faced boy.

“Howld your tongue, warmint, will you,” said the man in a deep growl. “Want to have me chucked overboard, and lose my bit o’ pension. You’re allus a-going at your pastors and masters.”

“Hit me first,” remonstrated the boy, as the new-comer gave him a shake.

“Well, what o’ that, you ungrateful young porpuss! Hasn’t the cap’n hit me lots o’ times and chucked things at me? You never see me flyin’ in his face.”

“Chucked a big apple at me first,” cried the boy in an ill-used tone.

“Sarve you right too. Has he hurt you much, Master Sydney?”

“No, Barney; not a bit. There, I was wrong. I didn’t know he was there when I threw the apple. I only did it because I felt vicious.”

“Hear that, you young sarpint?” cried the square-shouldered man.

“Yes, father.”

“Then just you recollect. If the young skipper feels wicious, he’s a right to chuck apples. Why, it’s rank mutiny hitting him again.”

“Hit me first,” grumbled the boy.

“Ay, and I’ll hit you first. Why, if I’d been board ship again, instead of being a pensioner and keeping this here garden in order for the skipper, I should have put my pipe to my mouth, and—What say, Master Syd?”

“Don’t say any more about it. I’d no business to hit Pan, and I’m sorry I did now.”

“Well, sir, I don’t know ’bout not having no business, ’cause you see you’re the skipper’s son, and nothing does a boy so much good as a leathering; but if you’re sorry for it, there’s an end on it. Pan-a-mar, my lad, beg Master Sydney’s pardon.”

“He hit me first,” grumbled the boy.

“Do you want me to give you a good rope’s-ending, my sonny?” growled the man; “’cause if you do, just you say that ’ere agen.”

The red-faced boy uttered a smothered growl, and was silent.

“Too young to understand discipline yet, Master Sydney,” said the man. “And so you felt wicious, did you? What about?”

“They’ve been at me again about going to sea, Barney.”

“And you don’t want to go, my lad?”

“No; and I won’t go.”

“Hear that, Pan, my lad?”

The boy nodded and drew down the corner of his lips, with the effect that Sydney made a threatening gesture.

“No, I’m not afraid, Pan,” he cried fiercely; “but I don’t want to go, and I won’t.”

The broad-shouldered man shook his head mournfully, and taking out a steel tobacco-box he opened it and cut off a piece of black, pressed weed, to transfer to his cheek, as he again shook his head sadly.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Master Sydney,” he said.

“Why?”

“’Cause it’s agen nature. I’m sixty-two now, and from the time I was a little shaver right up to now I never heerd a well-grown, strong, good-looking young chap say he didn’t want to go to sea.”

“Ah, well, Barney, you’ve heard one now.”

“Ay, ay! and mighty sorry too, sir. Why, there have been times when I’ve said to myself, ‘Maybe when the young master gets his promotion and a ship of his own, he’ll come and say to me, Now then, Barney, now’s your time to get rid o’ the rust; I’ll get you painted and scraped, and you shall come to sea with me.’”

“You, Barney? You are too old now. What would you be then?”

“Old! Old! Get out! I don’t call myself old by a long way, Master Syd; and if it hadn’t been for the captain laying up I should ha’ been at sea now. But you’ll think better on it, sir; you’ll go.”

“What, to sea, Barney?”

“Ay, sir.”

“No; I mean to be a doctor.”

“Then I says it again as I said it afore, Master Syd, there’s something the matter with you.”

“Matter? Nonsense! What do you mean?”

“Why, what you say sounds so gal-ish and soft, it makes me think as you must have ketched something going out with the doctor.”

“What rubbish, Barney!”

“But you going to be a doctor!” cried the old sailor, rubbing his nose with a great gnarled finger. “You, who might be an admiral and command a squadron: no, sir, it won’t do.”

“It will have to do, Barney.”

“Well, sir, it mought and it moughtn’t; but it strikes me as you’ve got something coming on, sir, as is a weakening your head—measles, or fever, or such-like—or you wouldn’t talk as you do about the Ryle Navee.”

“I talk about it as I do because I don’t want to go to sea.”

“But it’s a flying in the face of the skipper and the admiral. Bobstays and chocks! I wish I was your age and got the chance o’ going instead o’ being always ashore here plarntin’ the cabbages and pulling up the weeds.”

“Then you don’t like being a gardener, Barney?”

“I ’ates it, sir.”

“And so do I hate being a sailor. There!”

“But it’s so