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“It’s a quarter to eight, Bill,” exclaimed Captain Spalding, going to the companion way and standing in it, while he spoke to me with one foot on the ladder. “You will remember to keep your weather eye lifting, my lad. At the first slant I get my anchor; so stand by. Ye’d better ask Uncle Joe to keep his window open, that you may smell what you can’t see and hear what you can’t smell. My respects to Uncle Joe. Tell him if I’m detained here to-morrow I may pay him a visit, unless he has a mind for a cut of Deal beef and a piece of ship’s bread down in my cabin. Anyhow, my respects to him,” and he vanished.

I dropped into the mizzen chains, got into the galley, and was rowed ashore.

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The boat was swept to the beach, and I sprang on the shingle. I paid the men their charges, and paused a moment to realize the thrilling, inscrutable, memorable sensation which visits a man who, after a long absence, treads his native soil for the first time.

After the chocolate faces of the West, and the yellow faces of the East, and the copper-colored faces of the South; after two years of mosquitoes, of cathedral-like forests, of spacious roasting bays, of sharks and alligators, and league-broad rivers, and songless birds angelically plumed, and endless miles of ocean; after—but I should need a volume to catalogue all that follows this after—after the Royal Brunswicker, in a word, how exquisite was my happiness on feeling the Deal shingle under my foot; how rejoiced was I to be in a land of white men and women, who spoke my own native tongue with its jolly, hearty, round, old Kentish accent, and who lived in a kingdom of roast beef and Welsh mutton and the best ales which were ever brewed in this world!