rto been flying from the mast were presently lowered. Upon
this we ceased firing, and ranged up alongside.

"Oh! you've had enough, have you?" cried our captain. "Perhaps you'll
condescend to let your captain and papers come aboard _now_."

The Russian did not reply, but a boat was lowered. It was evident they
meant to obey.

"Here, you boy," cried our captain, as he paced the deck, awaiting their
arrival. "Here's a letter for you."

"A letter, sir!" I exclaimed, stepping forward, and touching my cap.

"Ay, your father gave it to me just afore we set sail. He told me not
to give it to you until you'd seen a little rough work. You've seen
some now, I think," (he accompanied this remark with a horrible leer),
"so there's the letter. Go below and read it. I'll want you in half an
hour for some still rougher work."

There seemed to me something very unaccountable and mysterious in this.
I knew that the captain did not know my father. I had not even told him
that I had a father. It seemed to me impossible that in the course of
the short half-hour that intervened between the time of my engaging to
serve in the _Ring-tailed Smasher_, and the time of my setting sail, my
father could have found out where I had run to, have met and conversed
with the captain, and have written a letter to me. Yet it seemed that
such was the case. I recognised the handwriting.

"Whom did you get the letter from? Did you see my father?"

"Come, youngster, don't you go for to question me. Go below d'rectly,
an' stop there till ye'r wanted."

The captain seized the end of a rope as he spoke, so I retreated at once
to the bedside of my poor friend Jack, only too glad to escape from the
presence of the men whom I now abhorred with all my heart.

"Jack," said I, eagerly, "here's a letter from my father!"

He evinced no surprise, but, looking up solemnly, said, in a faint
voice, "Read it."

Breaking the seal, I read as follows:--

"My Beloved Son,--I forgive you. You have sinned deeply in thus leaving
me; but I know that you have repented. I know that your own conscience
has rebuked you more sternly than any earthly parent could do. You
cannot now recall the past--you cannot undo what you have done; you must
now continue your voyage, and, in order to relieve your oppressed heart,
I give you my blessing. I commend you, my dear boy, to Him who is the
Saviour of sinners.

"Beware of the captain. Obey him in all that is rig