So Tom argued within himself in the most reasonable way in the world, for the temptation was very great. As he stood thus, looking out of the window and seeing nothing, for his eyes were turned within himself, some one suddenly smote him upon the shoulder, and a voice roared in his ear, “Helloa, Tom Granger! where are you bound?” It was a voice that Tom Granger knew very well, for there could be no other such in all of the world; it made one’s ears quiver, even when it was softened somewhat to talking. So, even before Tom turned his head, he knew that Jack Baldwin was standing behind him. Jack Baldwin had been second mate of the _Quaker City_ on the voyage to the East Indies. Tom Granger never saw in all his life such another man as Jack Baldwin. He stood nearly six feet and two inches in his stockings. His hair and beard were black and curly, and his eyes were as black as two beads. Tom once saw him pick up a mutinous sailor—a large and powerful man—and shake him as you might shake a kitten. To be sure, he was in a rage at the time. He was better dressed than Tom had ever seen him before. There was something of a half naval smack about his toggery, and, altogether, he looked sleek and prosperous,—very different from what Jack ashore does as a rule. Jack Baldwin saw that Tom Granger was looking him over. “I’m on the crest of the wave now,” said he, in his great, deep voice, grinning as he spoke. “Look’ee, Tom,” and he fetched up a gold eagle from out of his breeches pocket. He spun it up into the air, and caught it in his palm again as it fell. “There’s plenty more of the same kind where this came from, Tom.” “I wish that I only knew where the tree that they grow on is to be found,” said Tom, ruefully. “So you shall, my hearty. And do you want me to tell you where it is?” “Yes.” “Tom, you’re a loon!” “Why so? Because I want to know where the tree grows where gold eagles may be had for the picking?” “You were at the place this very blessed morning, and might have gathered a pocketful of the bright boys if you hadn’t run before a little wind as though it was a hurricane.” “What do you mean?” said Tom, though he half knew without the asking. “That I’ll tell you—here, you, bring me a glass of hot brandy and water; will you splice, Tom?” “Not I.” “I bring to mind that you were always called the Quaker aboard ship, and the name fits you well. You will neither fight nor drink, without you have to.” So the grog was brought, and Jack Baldwin and Tom Granger sat down, opposite to one another, at a rickety deal table. Presently Jack leaned over and laid his hand on Tom’s arm. “Where do you think I hail from, Tom?” said he. “I don’t know.”