Old Jack | Page 3

wondering that he did
not get up to join the fray. I listened, he breathed, but he did not speak.
Still I thought he must be awake. "Father, father," said I, "get up, do.
It's time to go home, sure now." I shook him gently, but he made no
reply. At length I could hear no sound proceeding from his lips. I cried
out in alarm. The keeper of the booth saw that something was wrong,
and came and looked curiously into his face. He lifted up my father's
hand. It fell like lead by his side.
"Why won't father speak to me?" I asked, dreading the answer.
"He'll never speak again! Your father's dead, lad," answered the man in
a tone of commiseration.
With what oppressive heaviness did those words strike on my young
heart, though at that time I did not fully comprehend the extent of my
loss,-- that I should never again hear the tone of his voice--that we were
for ever parted in this world--that I was an orphan, without a human
being to care for me. But though bewildered and confused at that awful
moment, the words he had uttered as we left home rung strangely in my
ears--"Lad, I'll show you what life is." Too truly did he show me what

death was. Often and often have I since seen the same promise fulfilled
in a similar fearful way. What men call life is a certain road to death;
death of the body, death of the soul. Of course I did not understand this
truth in those days; not indeed till long, long afterwards, when I had
gone through much pain and suffering, and had been well-nigh
worn-out. I was then very ignorant and very simple, and I should
probably have been vicious also had not my mother watchfully kept me
out of the way of bad example; and even after she was taken from me, I
was prevented from associating with bad companions.
When I found that my poor father was really dead, I stood wringing my
hands and crying bitterly. The sounds of my grief attracted many of the
passers-by; some stopped to inquire its cause, and when they had
satisfied their curiosity they went their way. At last several seamen,
with an independent air, came rolling up near the tent. The leader of the
party was one of the tallest men I ever saw. Though he stooped slightly
as he walked, his head towered above all the rest of the crowd.
"What's the matter with the young squeaker there, mate?" he asked in a
bantering tone, thinking probably that I had broken a toy, or lost a lump
of gingerbread from my pocket.
"His daddy's dead, and he's no one to look after him!" shouted an
urchin from the crowd of bystanders.
"He's in a bad case then," replied the seaman, coming up to me. "What,
lad! is it true that you have no friends?" he asked, stooping down and
taking me by the hand.
"No one but father, and he lies there!" I answered, giving way to a fresh
burst of grief as I pointed to my parent's corpse.
"He speaks the truth," observed the man of the booth; "he has no
mother, nor kith nor kin that I know of, and must starve if no one takes
charge of him, I suspect."
The tall sailor looked at me with an expression of countenance which at
once gained my confidence. "What say you, lad, will you come with

us?" he asked, pointing to his companions; "we'll take you to sea, and
make a man of you!"
"We may get him entered aboard the Rainbow, I think, mates," he
added, addressing them. "He'll do as well as the monkey we lost
overboard during the last gale; and though he may be as mischievous
now, he will learn better manners, which Jocko hadn't the sense to do."
"Oh ay! Bear him along with us," replied the other sea men; "he'll be
better afloat, whichever way the wind blows, than starving on shore."
"Come along, youngster, then," said the tall seaman; and, without
waiting for my reply, he seized me by the arm, and began to move off
with me through the crowd.
"But what will be done with poor father? Sure I cannot leave him
now!" I exclaimed, looking back with anguish at my father's corpse.
"Oh, we'll see all about that," answered my new friend; "he shall be
waked in proper style, and have a decent funeral; so you may leave
home with a clear conscience. Never fear!"
I need not dwell longer on the events of that sad day. Aided by some of
the men who knew my father, and who returned to the tent after the
fray was over, the kind-hearted