WVLDER'S HjIJVD.
51
money, and Dorcas is not my style. Rachel's more that
way; she's a tremendious fine girl, by Jove! and I think,
if I had seen her first, I'd have thought twice before I'd
have got myself into this business."
I only smiled and shook my head.
"What do you laugh at, Charlie?" said Wylder, grin-
ning himself.
"At your confounded grumbling, Mark. The luckiest
dog in England! Will nothing content you?"
"Why, I grumble very little, I think, considering how
well off I am," rejoined he, with a laugh.
"Grumble! If you had a particle of gratitude, you'd
build a temple to Fortune — you're pagan enough for it,
Mark."
"Fortune has nothing to do with it," says Mark, laugh-
ing again.
"Well, certainly, neither had you."
"It was all the Devil. I'm not joking, Charlie, upon
my word, though I'm laughing." (Mark swore now and
then, but I take leave to soften his oaths.) "It was the
Persian Magician."
"Come Mark, say what you mean."
"I mean what I say. When we were in the Persian
Gulf, near six years ago. I was in command of the ship.
The captain, you see, was below, with a hurt in his leg.
We had very rough weather — a gale for two days and a
night almost — and a heavy swell after. In the night
time we picked up three poor devils in an open boat. One
was a Persian merchant, with a grand beard. We called
him the magician, he was so like the picture of Aladdin's
uncle."
"Why he was an African," I interposed, my sense of
accuracy offended.
"I don't care a curse what he was," rejoined Mark;