r he looks, I
believe the happier he is. Silas Toley is a fine seaman and a true
gentleman.--

"I wonder if we shall ever meet again, Miss Merriman?"

"I wonder, Mr. Burke."

"I shall hear about you, I hope."

"Dear me; it is very unlikely. Father hates putting pen to paper. 'Tis
far more likely I shall hear of you, Mr. Burke, doing terrible things
among these poor Indians--and tigers: I am sure you must want to shoot a
tiger."

"You shall have my first skin--if I may send it."

"Mamma will be charmed, I am sure; though indeed she may have too many of
them, for we have the same promise from--let me see--Mr. Lushington, and
Mr. Picard, and Mr. Hastings, and--"

"All aboard!" sang out a voice from the deck of the vessel.

Phyllis gave Desmond her hand, and looked at last into his eyes. What he
read in hers filled him with contentment. She ran across the plank and
joined her father and mother, to whom Desmond had already said his
adieux. At the last moment Bulger came up puffing, a miscellaneous
collection of curiosities dangling from his hook.

"Goodby, sir," he said, giving Desmond a hearty grip. Then he shut one
eye and jerked his head in the direction of the vessel. "Never you fear,
sir: I'll keep my weather eye open. Missy have taken an uncommon fancy to
this here little fishhook o' mine, and 'tis my belief I'll keep her
hanging on to it, sir, nevertheless and notwithstandin' and all that,
till you comes home covered with gore and glory. I may be wrong."

He tumbled on deck. Then amid cheers, with flags flying and handkerchiefs
waving, the good ship moved from the ghat into the swelling river.

Chapter 32: In which the curtain falls to the sound of wedding bells: and
our hero comes to his own.

It was a mellow day in October 1760, a little more than six years since
the day when Market Drayton gave rein to its enthusiasm in honor of
Clive. From a flagstaff newly erected on the roof of the Four Alls on the
Newport Road, a square of bunting flapped in the breeze. Inside the inn
the innkeeper was drawing a pint of ale for his one solitary customer, a
shambling countryman with a shock of very red hair, and eyes of innocent
blue.

"There, that makes a quart, Tummus Biles, and 'tis as much as your turnip
head can safely carry."

He passed the can across the bar on a hook that projected from a wooden
socket in his sleeve.

"Why, now, Mr. Bulger," said Tummus, the tranter, "what fur do you go fur
t