s a short but comprehensive answer to your
question. If you have time and patience, kinsman, I'll open the
log-book of my memory and give you some details of my doings since we
last met. But first tell me, how is my young friend, Ned?"

"Oh, he's well--excellently well--besides being tall and strong. You
would hardly know him, captain. He's full six feet high, I believe, and
the scamp has something like a white wreath of smoke over his upper lip
already! I wish him to become an engineer or a lawyer, but the boy is
in love with California just now, and dreams about nothing but wild
adventures and gold-dust."

The captain gave a grunt, and a peculiar smile crossed his rugged visage
as he gazed earnestly and contemplatively into the fire.

Captain Bunting was a philosopher, and was deeply impressed with the
belief that the smallest possible hint upon any subject whatever was
sufficient to enable him to dive into the marrow of it, and
prognosticate the probable issue of it, with much greater certainty than
any one else. On the present occasion, however, the grunt above
referred to was all he said.

It is not necessary to trouble the reader with the lengthened discourse
that the captain delivered to his kinsman. When he concluded, Mr
Shirley pushed his spectacles up on his bald head, gazed at the fire,
and said, "Odd, very odd; and interesting too--very interesting." After
a short pause, he pulled his spectacles down on his nose, and looking
over them at the captain, said, "And what part of America are you bound
for now?"

"California," answered the captain, slowly.

Mr Shirley started, as if some prophetic vision had been called up by
the word and the tone, in which it was uttered.

"And that," continued the captain, "brings me to the point. I came here
chiefly for the purpose of asking you to let your nephew go with me, as
I am in want of a youth to assist me, as a sort of supercargo and
Jack-of-all-trades. In fact, I like your nephew much, and have long had
my eye on him. I think him the very man for my purpose. I want a
companion, too, in my business--one who is good at the pen and can turn
his hand to anything. In short, it would be difficult to explain all
the outs and ins of why I want him. But he's a tight, clever fellow, as
I know, and I _do_ want him, and if you'll let him go, I promise to
bring him safe back again in the course of two years--if we are all
spared. From what you've told me, I'