Dan knew that he should find a very fair berth there, with a roll or two
of stuff to lay his back on, and a piece of tarpauling to draw over his
legs. In the faint light that hovered from the breaking of the wavelets
he soon found his boat, and saw a tall man standing by her.
"Daniel," said the tall man, without moving, "my sight is very bad at
night, but unless it is worse than usual, you are my admired friend
Daniel. A young man in a thousand--one who dares to think."
"Yes, Squire Carne," the admired friend replied, with a touch of hat
protesting against any claim to friendship: "Dan Tugwell, at your
service. And I have thought too much, and been paid out for it."
"You see me in a melancholy attitude, and among melancholy
surroundings." Caryl Carne offered his hand as he spoke, and Dan took
it with great reverence. "The truth is, that anger at a gross injustice,
which has just come to my knowledge, drove me from my books and sad
family papers, in the room beneath the roof of our good Widow Shanks.
And I needs must come down here, to think beside the sea, which seems to
be the only free thing in England. But I little expected to see you."
"And I little expected to be here, Squire Carne. But if not making too
bold to ask--was it anybody that was beaten?"
"Beaten is not the right word for it, Dan; cruelly flogged and lashed,
a dear young friend of mine has been, as fine a young fellow as ever
lived--and now he has not got a sound place on his back.
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