“I tell you what, Collins,” continued Westwood, “this may be all very well for _you_, who are continually getting into scrapes and out of them, and don’t seem to care much whether you ship on board an Indiaman or a corn-brig—you can always find something to do—but to me the service is _everything_!” “Well, well,” said I hastily, “I’m much mistaken if we don’t find something to do in India, Tom,—only wait, and that uncle of yours will make all right; for all we know, there may be news from Europe to meet us, and I must say I don’t like the notion of being born too late for turning out an admiral! I’m sure, for my part, I wish old Nap well out of that stone cage of his!” “No, no, Ned,” said Westwood, “I ought to clear myself at home first, and sorry I am that I gave in to you by leaving England, when I should have faced the consequences whatever they were. Running only made matters worse, Collins!” “No doubt,” I said; “and as it was my fault, why, deuce take me, Tom, if I don’t manage to carry you out scot-free! Depend on it, Captain Duncombe’s friends would have you strung up like a dog, with the interest he had, and sharp as discipline is just now.” Westwood shuddered at the thought. “I fear it would go hard with me, Ned,” said he, “and I shan’t deny that these few weeks have brought me back a taste for life. But, in spite of all, I’d deliver myself up to the first king’s ship we speak, or go home in some Indiaman from the Cape—but for one thing, Collins!” “Ah!” said I, “what’s that?” Westwood gave me a curious half look, and said—“One _person_, I mean, Ned—and I shouldn’t like _her_ to hear of me being—” “Yes, yes,” said I stiffly, “I know.” “It must have been by guess, then!” answered he. “Often as we’ve talked of her during the voyage, I thought you didn’t know we had met frequently in London before you came home, and—and—the fact is, I wasn’t sure you would like _me_ to—” “Westwood,” said I quickly, “Tom Westwood—what I have to ask is—do you love her?” “If ever a man loved a woman, Ned,” was his answer, “I do _her_; but if _you_—” “Have you any chance, then?” I broke out. “Ay, true—true enough, you have the best of chances—your way is as clear as could be, Westwood, if you knew it! Only I _must_ know if she is willing—does she—” “I got leave to write to her in London,” answered Westwood, “and I did so pretty often, you may be sure; but I only had one short little note in answer to the last, I think it was—which I had in my breast that morning on Southsea beach, when I expected the bullet would come through it!” Here Westwood stooped down to his trunk, and took out a rose-coloured note wrapped in a bit of paper; I standing the while fixed to the deck, not able to speak, till he was handing it to me. “No, no!” said I, turning from him angrily, and like to choke, “that’s too much, Mr Westwood—pray keep your own love-letters for your own reading!” “There’s nothing particular in it,