In the Wilds of Africa | Page 4

thread of my narrative.
"How is the weather, Andrew?" said Captain Page as I went into his cabin. We had the skylight off, to let in as much air as possible, but yet it felt hot and stifling. He was very pale. His lips were of a bluish tinge, and his eyes were sunken and dim. On a locker close by him sat a young boy with a book before him, from which he was in vain endeavouring to read. I saw that Natty had been crying, for tears bedewed the page. He was the captain's only son. His mother was dead, and rather than leave him on shore to the care of strangers, his father had brought him on this African voyage. "It was a choice of two evils," he said to me one day. "The boy's constitution is good, and we must not let him be exposed to the night air or hot suns up the rivers, and he will probably stand the climate better than most of us." Such indeed had been the case, and Natty had been well, and had until now been full of life and spirits--the favourite of all on board. He and my young cousin Leonard soon struck up a friendship, and were of course always together. For once Natty had left his friend to remain by the side of his father. The captain had been speaking to him, for his voice ceased as I appeared.
I replied to the captain's question, "No signs of a change, Captain Page. We hove the lead, but found no bottom. We must still be some distance off the coast."
"I trust so," was the answer. "Heave the lead every quarter of an hour, and let me know when we are in soundings. Take another cast at once, and then come back."
I told the mate. "Why, I did so not twenty minutes ago," he answered. "What does the old man want us to do it again for?"
"The captain knows this coast well, Mr Kydd," I answered. "We may be thankful to get an anchor to hold as soon as we get into shallow water."
Seeing the mate did not seem disposed to obey, I took the lead, and calling to two of the hands, prepared to heave it.
"No, no," observed Kydd, "that is my work;" and taking the lead from me, hove it carelessly. "No bottom," he answered; "I should think not, indeed, out here."
It appeared to me that as the line ran out the whole length, he could not be mistaken. Returning to the cabin, I made my report to the captain. "Andrew," he said, "sit down; I want to have a few words with you. I am going to that haven whence I shall never come back. I feel that I shall not hold on much longer to life. I have not been a successful man, and leave my boy but ill-provided for. As to my friends, there are none that I can think of who are able to help him; and the few acquaintances I have who could do so, I cannot trust. The thought of what will become of my orphan boy weighs heavily on me. Andrew, you are young and healthy, and may Heaven preserve your life for many years! I have no great claim on you, but Andrew, as you hope Heaven will watch over you, do you keep an eye on my boy. Do for him the best you can. I have seen enough of you to know that you will act wisely and kindly. I do not desire to have him pampered and spoiled by riches, if I could give them, but I cannot bear the thought of his being left friendless and in poverty to fight his way through this often hard and cruel world. You will see to this, Andrew? I am sure you will."
"I will, Captain Page; I promise you," I answered, and I took his cold clammy hand.
Poor Natty was all this time sobbing violently. The truth that he was going to lose his father burst upon him, and that father had ever been kind and indulgent.
"That is well, that is well," murmured Captain Page. "I trust to you to be his human protector, and to One"--and he turned his eyes upward--"who will ever be a Friend of the fatherless."
The captain said a good deal more, and made various arrangements about Natty. Desiring me to get some papers from his desk, he showed me how I could obtain the little property he was likely to leave.
"I wish I could see the brig safely brought to an anchor," he observed after a long silence. "It is a nasty coast at best. With a breeze we could work off it, but while this calm lasts we cannot help ourselves from being