The Boy Patriot by Edward Sylvester Ellis Page B

collected all the sailors on deck, and Blair had taken the opportunity to retire below to spend some time in recalling Scripture to his mind, which was now his substitute for reading in the holy book. He was roused from his meditations by the entrance of Derry Duck, with an inkstand in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other. Blair rose as the mate came towards him, supposing the writing materials were to be left in his charge for some shipmate.
    â€œSit down, boy,” said Derry in his quick way, “sit down; I want you to do something for me.”
    â€œI should be right glad to do any thing I could for you. You have been a real friend to me,” said Blair warmly. ”You can’t think how much I thank you for it.”
    Derry sat down and laid the paper on the table before him. Then the two were for a moment silent. Blair and his “friend” formed a strange contrast to each other.
    The slender stripling, tall for his years, was yet in the blossom of his youth. His face, which was so like his loving mother’s, would have been effeminate, but for the savor of old Joe Robertson the pilot, which told in the marked nose and strong chin of the boy, but had no part in his great, clear, soul-lit eyes, or the flexible lines of his changing mouth. That mouth was now parted as if he would say more, but waited for some word or sign from his companion.
    Derry Duck was a very bundle of time-worn, storm-tried muscles and sinews. The knots on his bare arms were like knobs of oak; and his great brawny hand that lay there on the white paper, looked like a powerful living thing, having almost an identity and will of its own.
    Derry’s body and whole development to his thighs were those of a tall, stalwart man; but his lower limbs were short and sturdy, ending in great flat feet which were as much at home in the water as on the rolling deck, or amid the dizzy rigging. These peculiarities had given him the name by which he was known—originally “Daring Duck,” but by degrees contracted into the “Derry Duck” which Blair had caught from the sailors.
    It was hard to realize that the mate of the Molly had ever been an infant, whose tender cheek had been pressed to that of a loving mother. And yet it was true that a Christian mother had once hailed that hardened man as a gift from God to nurse for him. His lips had been taught to pray, and his young footsteps guided to the house of God.
    Time had made sad changes in him since then. His skin was now as tough and well-tanned as his leathern belt, in which hung many a curious implement of war and peace, a perfect tool-shop for the boarder’s wild work, or the seaman’s craft. In that strong, hard face there was a tale of a life of exposure, a lawless life, which had well-nigh given over to the evil one the soul which God meant for himself.
    â€œI want you to write a letter for me,” said Derry, looking cautiously about him and then going on, “a letter to my little daughter. Hush; not a word of this to any of the men. When it is done, you must put it inside of one of your love-letters to your mother. They mustn’t get wind of it. They are not fit even to know I have such a child, much less to see her. Be secret! Can I trust you, my boy?”
    â€œI’ll write for you with all my heart,” said Blair in astonishment; “and of course I wont name it if you don’t wish me to; no, not to a soul on board. But I shall have to tell my mother, or she wont know what to do with the letter.”
    â€œJust ask her to mail it for one of your shipmates. That will be enough,” said Derry quickly. “‘Least said, soonest mended.’ I have my reasons. I know which way the wind blows, and how to ward off a sou’-wester.”
    â€œWhat shall I say?” said Blair, taking up the pen, and reaching for the paper. Derry’s hand lay on it, a “paperweight” that did not move itself off at