The Argosy — page 28: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

In the Dead of Night. 15 CHAPTER III. THE FOUNDATION OF A FRIENDSHIP. NoTWITHSTANDING Dr. Bell’s hopeful prognostications, it seemed very doubtful whether Mr. Tom Bristow would ever leave Gatehouse Farm alive. ‘I did not think his hull was quite so badly damaged as it is,” said the worthy doctor, who had formerly been in the navy, to Lionel. “ And his figure-head has certainly been terribly knocked about. But he’s an Alcraft, and I can’t help thinking that he'll weather the storm.” And weather the storm he did—thanks to good nursing and a good constitution. When he once took a turn for the better, his progress towards recovery was rapid. But September had come and gone, and the frosts of early winter lay white on meadow and fold, before the doctor’s grey pony ceased calling at Gatehouse Farm on its daily rounds. Long before this time, however, a feeling of more than ordinary friendship had grown up between Lionel Dering and Tom Bristow. The points of dissimilarity in the characters of the two men were very marked, but it may be that they liked each other none the less on that account. In any case, this dissimilarity of disposition lent a piquancy to their friendship which it would not otherwise have possessed. But who and what was this Mr. Tom Bristow? The account which he gave of himself to Lionel, one afternoon, when far advanced towards recovery, was somewhat vague and meagre; but it more than satisfied the master of Gatehouse Farm, who was one of the least inquisitive of mortals; and, for the present, it will have to satisfy the reader also. They were sitting on a rustic bench just outside the farm porch, basking in the genial September sunshine. Lionel had his meerschaum between his lips, and was fondling the head of his favourite dog, Osric. Tom Bristow, who never smoked, was busy with a piece of boxwood and a pocket-knife. Little by little he was fashioning the wood into a capital but slightly caricatured likeness of worthy Dr. Bell—a likeness which the jovial medico would be the first to recognize and laugh at when finished. Tom was a slim-built, aquiline-nosed, fair-complexioned, young fellow; rather under than over the ordinary height ; and looking younger than he really was—he was six-and-twenty years old— by reason of his perfectly smooth and close-shaven face, which cherished not the sl ghtest growth of whiskers, beard, or moustache. Tom’s first action on coming to his senses after his accident was to put his hand to his chin, just then bristling with a stubble of several days’ growth ; and his first words to the startled nurse were, ‘‘ My dear madam, I shall feel greatly obliged by your sending for a barber.” His eyes were blue, full of vivacity, and keenly observant of all that went on around him. com ) LNOOIKKS.EO am a=)