en, as for my doing you a good turn if it's
possible, speak out. What is it?"

"Now, I call that noble of you, Phil; damned noble! I do need a good
turn, and that's a fact. You see I didn't tell my father exactly the
truth as to my leaving the Barbadoes. Not that I don't scorn a lie,
but I was considerate of the old gentleman's feelings. I couldn't
endure to shock him in his tenderest place. You understand?"

"I probably shall when you've finished."

"Why, I dare say you know what the old man's tenderest place is. Well,
if you won't answer, 'tis his pride in the family name, the spotless
name of Faringfield! Oh, I've worked upon that more than once, I tell
you. The old gentleman will do much to keep the name without a
blemish; I could always bring him to terms by threatening to disgrace
it--"

"What a rascal you've been, then!"

"Why, maybe so; we're not all saints. But I've always kept my word
with father, and whenever he gave me the money I wanted, or set me up
in life again, I kept the name clean--comparatively clean, that is to
say, as far as any one in New York might know. And even this time--at
the Barbadoes--'twasn't with any purpose of punishing father, I vow;
'twas for my necessities, I made myself free with a thousand pounds of
Culverson's."

"The devil! Do you mean you embezzled a thousand pounds?"

"One cool, clean thousand! My necessities, I tell you. There was a
debt of honour, you must know; a damned unlucky run at the cards, and
the navy officer that won came with a brace of pistols and gave me two
days in which to pay. And then there was a lady--with a brat, confound
her!--to be sent to England, and looked after. You see, 'twas honour
moved me in the first case, and chivalry in the second. As a
gentleman, I couldn't withstand the promptings of noble sentiments
like those."

"Well, what then?"

"Why, then I came away. And I hadn't the heart to break the truth to
father, knowing how 'twould cut him up. I thought of the old
gentleman's family pride, his gray hairs--his hair _is_ gray by this
time, isn't it?--"

"And what is it you wish me to do?"

"Why, you see, Culverson hadn't yet found out how things were, when I
left. I pretended I was ill--and so I was, in a way. But he must have
found out by this time, and when he sends after me, by the next
vessel, I'm afraid poor father will have to undergo a severe
trial--you know his weakness for the honoured name of Faringfield."

"By the Lord,