The old knight had long tried to curb his roving and seafaring propensities, but all to no purpose. On the cold December night on which the story opens—the night after old Bertram’s murder—the knight sat by a huge log fire in his library, reading. Ned was pouring over some favourite “tale of the sea,” and sighing for a chance to distinguish himself against the many bloodthirsty pirates and buccaneers that then infested the neighbouring seas. “Oh! isn’t that jolly?” said Ned, striking the table with his fist. “Oh! I wish I had been there.” “Where?” said the knight, looking up in surprise. “Why, in the ship I’m reading about. Didn’t they give the pirates and smugglers something, that’s all! Why, uncle, a small English sloop of war with six guns, fought a whole fleet of buccaneers. Wasn’t that jolly, eh?” “Still thinking of the sea, eh, Ned?” “Yes, uncle (for both he and Charles always so called him), and why not? Our sailors are the bravest and finest fellows in the world. Wouldn’t _I_ like to be a middy in the king’s navy, that’s all? I’d lay my life I should be an admiral before I was twenty.” Sir Richard did not reply; but walked to the window thoughtfully, and looked out upon the cold, snow-covered landscape, and as the winds sighed mournfully down the chimney, he tapped Ned affectionately on the head, as he said, “Ah, my lad, your brother Charles will make the best man of the two yet; see, he is not much older than you are, and yet he stands well in the East Indian house, and will be a rich man one of these days if he’s industrious and behaves himself.” “Perhaps so,” said Ned, biting his lip; “but I never did like pen and ink and figures; that sort of work is too slow for me.” “I know it. You would rather go hunting and boating; but, believe me, there are more hardships at sea than boys like you ever dreamed of, Ned.” “_I_ shouldn’t mind ’em.” “And danger, too.” “That’s just what I should like,” said curly-headed Ned, laughing. “I wouldn’t give a dump for an English boy without he liked adventures and danger, and could well beat any foreigner he came across.” While he spoke the lodge bell rang. “Who is that?” asked the knight of a footman who entered. “Tim, the groom boy, sir, as he rode home, picked up a poor one-legged sailor, for he was afraid, he said, to pass the gibbets on the wild heath alone.” “Who, the sailor or Tim?” “The groom, sir.” “I thought it wasn’t the sailor,” said Ned. “An English sailor without legs at all is more than a match for any foreigner with two, and as to being afraid to pass the gibbets, ha! ha! British tars ain’t afraid of men dangling in chains.” “Silence, Ned. What of this poor sailor?” “Tim said, sir, as how Master Edward were fond of sailors.” “So I am; Tim was right.” “He brought him to the Hall to pass the night.” “Good boy, Tim,” said Ned. “I owe him a shilling for that. Won’t we pump all the yarns out of him before he goes to-morrow, that’s all?”