The African Trader: The Adventures of Harry Bayford

Our school was breaking up for the midsummer holidays—north, south, east, and west we sped to our different destinations, thinking with glee of the pleasures we believed to be in store for us. I was bound for Liverpool, where my father, a West India merchant, now resided. He had for most of his life lived in Jamaica, where I was born, and from whence I had a few years before accompanied him to England to go to school. “I am sorry we shall not see you back, Bayford,” said the good doctor, as he shook me warmly by the hand. “May our heavenly Father protect you, my boy, wherever you go.” “I hope to go as a midshipman on board a man-of-war, sir,” I answered. “My father expects to get me appointed to a ship this summer, and I suppose that is the reason I am leaving.” The doctor looked kindly and somewhat sadly at me. “You must not, Harry, raise your hopes on that point too high,” he answered, in a grave tone. “When I last heard from your father, saying he desired to remove you, he was very unwell. I grieve to have to say this, but it is better that you should be prepared for evil tidings. God bless you Harry Bayford. The coach will soon be up; I must not detain you longer.”