CHAPTER XXII.

THE REAL MISSION OF THE JUG.


Ham Morris ate well, when he once got at it; but he did not linger long
at the dinner-table, for his heart was in "The Swallow." Dab would have
given more than ever for the privilege of going with him. Not that he
felt so dreadfully charitable, but that he did not care to prolong his
stay at Mrs. Foster's, as "cook" or otherwise. He had not by any means
lost his appetite,--although he seemed disposed to neglect the lobsters;
and when he had taken proper care of it he hurried away "on an errand
for his mother," in the direction of the village. Nearly everybody he
met had some question or other to ask him about the wreck, and it was
not to have been expected that Jenny Walters would let her old
acquaintance pass her without a word or so.

Dab answered as well as he could, considering the disturbed state of his
mind; but he wound up with,--

"Jenny, I wish you'd come over to our house by and by."

"What for?"

"Oh! I've got something to show you--something you never saw before."

"Do you mean your new baby? the one you found on the bar?"