Sebright like he was looking at a ghost, and then (I
give you my word of honour) turned to, and doubled up
in a dead faint. 'Take him down to my berth,' says Mr.
Sebright. ''Tis poor old Norrie Carthew,' he says."
"And what--what sort of a gentleman was this Mr.
Carthew?" I gasped.
"The ward-room steward told me he was come of the best
blood in England," was my friend's reply: "Eton and
'Arrow bred; and might have been a bar'net!"
"No, but to look at?" I corrected him.
"The same as you or me," was the uncompromising answer:
"not much to look at. I didn't know he was a
gen'lem'n; but then, I never see him cleaned up."
"How was that?" I cried. "O yes, I remember: he was
sick all the way to 'Frisco, was he not?"
"Sick, or sorry, or something," returned my informant.
"My belief, he didn't hanker after showing up. He kep'
close; the ward-room steward, what took his meals in,
told me he ate nex' to nothing; and he was fetched
ashore at 'Frisco on the quiet. Here was how it was.
It seems his brother had took and died, him as had the
estate.
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