“That’s no common-sense, Jack. I die the easier knowing my going makes way for your good luck. And the plantation’s a gem, Jack; never a cold or sour acre in the whole three thousand, but all of it warm, sweet land. There’re two thousand acres of woods; and I’d leave that stand.” The dying man, being Scotch, would give advice on his deathbed. “The thousand acres now under plow are enough.” Then, after a pause: “Ye’ll be content ashore? You’re young yet; you’re not so wedded to the sea, I think, but you’ll turn planter with good grace?” “No fear, William. I’ve had good fortune by the sea; but then I’ve met ill fortune also. By and large, I shall be very well content to turn planter.” “It’s gainful, Jack, being a planter is. Only keep Duncan Macbean by you to manage, and he’ll turn you in one thousand golden guineas profit every Christmas day, and you never to lift hand or give thought to the winning of them.” “Is the plantation as gainful as that? Now I have but three thousand guineas to call mine, after sailing these years.” “Ay! it’s gainful, Jack. If you will work, too, there’s that to keep you busy. There’s the grist mill, the thirty slaves, the forty horses, besides the cows and swine and sheep to look after; as well as the negro quarters, the tobacco houses, the stables, and the great mansion itself to keep up. They’ll all serve to fill in the time busily, if you should like it that way. Only Jack, with the last of it, always leave everything to Duncan Macbean. A rare and wary man is old Duncan, and saving of money down to farthings.” “Whose sloop is that at the landing!” asks Captain Jack Paul, willing to shift the subject. “Oh, yon sloop! She goes with the plantation; she’ll be yours anon, brother. And there you are: When the sea calls to you, Jack, as she will call, you take the sloop. Cato and Scipio are good sailors, well trained to the coast clear away to Charleston.” And so William Paul Jones dies, and John Paul takes his place on the plantation. His name is no longer John Paul, but John Paul Jones; and, as his dying brother counselled, he keeps old Duncan Macbean to be the manager. When his brother is dead, Captain Jack Paul joins his mate, Laurence Edgar, on the deck of the _Two Friends_, swinging tide and tide on her anchors. “Mate Edgar,” says Captain Jack Paul, “it is the last time I shall plank this quarterdeck as captain. I’m to stay; and you’re to take the ship home to Whitehaven. And now, since you’re the captain, and I’m no more than a guest, suppose you order your cabin boy to get us a bottle of the right Madeira, and we’ll drink fortune to the bark and her new master.” CHAPTER VI--THE FIRST BLOW IN VIRGINIA