Nautilus

CHAPTER V.

MYSTERY.

John was at work in the garden. At least, so it would have appeared to an ordinary observer; in reality he was carrying on a sanguinary combat, and dealing death on every side. His name was George Washington, and he was at Bunker Hill (where he certainly had no business to be), and the British were intrenched behind the cabbages. "They've just got down into the ground, they are so frightened!" he said to himself, pausing to straighten his aching back, and toss the red curls out of his eyes. "See 'em, all scrooched down, with their feet in the earth, trying to make believe they grow there! But I'll have 'em out! Whack! there goes the general. Come out, I say!" He wrestled fiercely with an enormous Britisher, disguised as a stalk of pig-weed, and, after a breathless tussle, dragged him bodily out of the ground, and flung his headless corpse on the neighbouring pile of weeds.

"Ha! that was fine!" cried the boy. "I shouldn't be a bit surprised if that was George the Third himself; it was ugly enough for him. Come up here! hi! down with you! Now Jack the Giant-Killer is coming to help me, and the British have got Cormoran (this was before Jack killed him), and there's going to be a terrible row." But General Washington waves his gallant sword, and calls to his men, and says,—

"Good morning, sir! you make a busy day, I see."

It was not General Washington who spoke. It was the Skipper, and he was leaning on the gate and looking at the boy John and smiling. "You make a busy day," he repeated. "I think there are soon no more weeds in Sir Scraper's garden."

"Oh, yes!" cried John, straightening himself again, and leaning on his trusty hoe. "There'll be just as many—I beg your pardon! Good morning! I hope you are well; it is a very fine day. There'll be just as many of them to-morrow, or next day, certainly. I make believe they are the British, you see, and I've been fighting all the morning, and I do think they are pretty well licked by this time; but they don't stay licked, the British don't. I like them for that, don't you? Even though it is a bother to go on fighting all the days of one's life."

"I also have noticed that of the British!" the Skipper said, nodding gravely. "But now you can rest a little, Juan Colorado? Sir Scraper is at home, that you call him for me, say I desire to make him the visit?"

"No, he isn't at home," said John. "He's gone down to the store for his mail. But please come in and wait, and he'll be back soon. Do come in! It—it's cool to rest, after walking in the sun."

It was the only inducement the child could think of, but he offered it with right good-will. The Skipper assented with a smile and a nod, and the two passed into the house together.

In the kitchen, which was the living-room of the house, John halted, and brought a chair for his visitor, and prepared to play the host as well as he could; but the visitor seemed, for some reason, not to fancy the kitchen. He looked around with keen, searching eyes, scanning every nook and corner in the bare little room. Truly, there was not much to see. The old fireplace had been blocked up, and in its place was the usual iron cooking-stove, with a meagre array of pots and pans hanging behind it. The floor was bare; the furniture, a table and chair, with a stool for John. There was no provision for guests; but that did not matter, as Mr. Scraper never had guests. Altogether, there was little attraction in the kitchen, and the Skipper seemed curiously displeased with its aspect.

"There is no other room?" he asked, after completing his survey. "No better room than this, Colorado? Surely, there must be one other; yes, of course!" he added, as if struck by a sudden thought. "His shells? Mr. Scraper has shells. They are—where?"

He paused and looked sharply at the boy. Little John coloured high. "The—the shells?" he stammered. "Yes, of course, sir, the shells are in another room, in the parlour; but—but—I am not let go in there, unless Mr. Scraper sends me."

"So!" said the dark man; "but for me, Colorado, how is it for me? Mr. Scraper never said to me that I must not go in this parlour, you see. For you it is well, you do as you are told; you are a boy that makes himself to trust; for me, I am a Skipper from the Bahamas, I do some things that are strange to you,—among them, this. I go into the parlour."

He nodded lightly, and leaving the child open-mouthed in amazement, opened the sacred door, the door of the best parlour, and went in, as unconcernedly as if it were his own cabin. John, standing at the door,—he surely might go as far as the door, if he did not step over the threshold,—watched him, and his eyes grew wider and wider, and his breath came quicker and quicker.

For the Skipper was doing strange things, as he had threatened. Advancing quickly into the middle of the room, he cast around him the same searching glance with which he had scanned the kitchen. He went to the window, and threw back the blinds. The sunlight streamed in, as if it, too, were eager to see what shrouded treasures were kept secluded here. Probably the blinds had not been thrown back since Gran'ther Scraper died.

The parlour was scarcely less grim than the kitchen, though there was a difference in its grimness. Seven chairs stood against the wall, like seven policemen with their hands behind their backs; a table crouched in the middle, its legs bent as if to spring. The boy John considered the table a monster, transformed by magic into its present shape, and likely to be released at any moment, and to leap at the unwary intruder. Its faded cover, with two ancient ink-blots which answered for eyes, fostered this idea, which was a disquieting one. On the wall hung two silver coffin-plates in a glass case, testifying that Freeborn Scraper, and Elmira his wife, had been duly buried, and that their coffins had presented a good appearance at the funeral. But the glory of the room, in the boy John's eyes, was the cabinet of shells which stood against the opposite wall. He had once thought this the chief ornament of the world; he knew better now, but still he regarded its treasures with awe and veneration, and looked to see the expression of delight which should overspread the features of his new friend at sight of it. What, then, was his amazement to see his new friend pass over the cabinet with a careless glance, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world! Evidently, it was not shells that he had come to see; and the boy grew more and more mystified. Suddenly the dark eyes lightened; the whole face flashed into keen attention. What had the Skipper seen? Nothing, apparently, but the cupboard in the corner, the old cupboard where Mr. Scraper kept his medicines. The old man had sent John to this cupboard once, when he himself was crippled with rheumatism, to fetch him a bottle of the favourite remedy of the day. John remembered its inward aspect, with rows of dusty bottles, and on the upper shelf, rows of still more dusty papers. What could the Skipper see to interest him in the corner cupboard? Something, certainly! For now he was opening the cupboard, quietly, as if he knew all about it and was looking for something that he knew to be there.

"Ah!" said the Skipper; and he drew a long breath, as of relief. "True, the words! In the corner of the parlour, a cupboard of three corners, with bottles filled, and over the bottles, papers. Behold the cupboard, the bottles, the papers! A day of fortunes!" He bent forward, and proceeded to rummage in the depths of the cupboard; but this was too much for John's conscience. "I beg your pardon, sir!" he said, timidly. "But—do you think you ought to do that?"

The Skipper looked out of the cupboard for an instant, and his eyes were very bright. "Yes, Colorado," he said. "I think I ought to do this! Oh, very much indeed, my friend, I ought to do this! And here,"—he stepped back, holding something in his hand,—"here, it is done! No more disturbance, Colorado; I thank you for your countenance.

"Do we now make a promenade in the garden, to see your work?

"Yet," he added, pausing and again looking around him, "but yet once more I observe. This room,"—it was strange, he did not seem to like the parlour any better than he had liked the kitchen—"this room, to live in! a young person, figure it, Colorado! gentle, with desires, with dreams of beauty, and this only to behold! For companion an ancient onion,—I say things that are improper, my son! I demand pardon! But for a young person, a maiden to live here, would be sad indeed, do you think it?"

John pondered, in wonder and some trouble of mind. There was something that he had to say, something very hard; but it would not be polite just now, and he must answer a question when he was asked. "I—I thought it was a fine room!" he said at length, timidly. "It isn't as bright, somehow, as where I used to live with my mother, and—it seems to stay shut up, even when it isn't; but—I guess it's a fine room, sir; and then, if a person didn't like it, there's all out-doors, you know, and that's never shut up."

"True!" cried the Skipper, with a merry laugh; "out of doors is never shut up, praise be to Heaven!" He pulled off his cap, and looked up at the shining sky. They were standing on the door-step now, and John noticed that his companion seemed much less grave than usual. He laughed, he patted the boy on the shoulder, he hummed snatches of strange, sweet melodies. Once or twice he broke out into speech, but it was foreign speech, and John knew nothing save that it was something cheerful. They walked about the garden, and the Skipper surveyed John's work, and pronounced it prodigious. He questioned the child closely, too, as to how he lived, and what he did, and why he stayed with Mr. Scraper. But the child could tell him little. He supposed it was all right; his mother was dead, and there was nobody else, and Mr. Scraper said he was his father's uncle, and that the latter had appointed him guardian over John in case of the mother's death. That was all, he guessed.

"All, my faith!" cried the Skipper, gayly. "Enough, too, Colorado! quite enough, in the opinion of me. But I go, my son! Till a little while; you will come to-day to the 'Nautilus,' yes?"

But little John stood still in the path, and looked up in his friend's face. The time had come when he must do the hard thing, and it was harder even than he had thought it would be. His throat was very dry, and he tried once or twice before the words would come. At last—"I beg your pardon!" he said. "I am only a little boy, and perhaps there is something I don't understand; but—but—I don't think you ought to have done that!"

"Done what, son of mine?" asked the Skipper, gazing down at him with the bright, kind eyes that he loved, and that would not be kind the next moment, perhaps. "What is it I have done?"

"To take the papers!" said John; and now his voice was steady, and he knew quite well what he must say, if only his heart would not beat so loud in his ears! "I don't think it was right; but perhaps you know things that make it right for you. But—but Mr. Scraper left me here, to take care of the house, and—and I shall have to tell him that you went into the parlour and took things out of the cupboard."

There was silence for a moment,—silence, all but the throbbing that seemed as if it must deafen the child, as it was choking him. He stood looking at the ground, his face in a flame, his eyes full of hot, smarting tears. Was it he who had stolen the papers? Surely anyone would have thought so who saw his anguish of confusion. And the Skipper did not speak! And this was his friend, the first heart-friend the child had ever had, perhaps the only one that would ever come to him, and he was affronting him, casting him off, accusing him of vileness! Unable to bear the pain any longer, the child looked up at last, and as he did so, the tears overflowed and ran down his round cheeks. The dark eyes were as kind as ever. They were smiling, oh, so tenderly! John hid his face on his blue sleeve, and sobbed to his heart's content; somehow, without a word, the dreadful pain was gone, and the blessed feeling had returned that this friend knew all about things, and understood little boys, and liked them.

The Skipper did not speak for a moment, only stood and stroked the boy's curly hair with a light, soft touch, almost as his mother used to stroke it. Then he said, in his deep, grave voice, that was sweeter than music, John thought.

"Colorado! my little son, my friend!" That was enough for a few minutes, till the sobs were quieted, and only the little breast heaved and sank, tremulously, like the breast of a frightened bird. Then the Skipper led him to a rustic bench, and sat down beside him, and took his hand.

"And that hurt you to say, my little son?" he said, smiling. "That hurt you, because you thought it would vex the friend from the Bahamas, the friend who steals. And yet you like him a little, is it not?"

"Oh!" cried John, looking up with all his heart in his blue eyes; and no other word was needed.

"See, then!" the Skipper went on, still holding the boy's hand; "it is that you are right, Colorado, oh, very right, my son! and I, who am old, but old enough to be twice to you a father, I thought not of this. Yes, you must tell Sir Scraper, if—if I do not tell him first." He was silent a moment, thinking; and then continued, speaking slowly, choosing his words with care: "Is it that you think, Colorado, it would be wrong to wait a little before you tell Sir Scraper—if I said, till to-morrow? If I ask you to wait, and then, if I have not told him, you shall tell him,—what do you say of that, my son?"

John looked helplessly around, his blue eyes growing big and wistful again. "If—if he should ask me!" he said. "I am sure you know all about it, and that it is all right for you, but if he should ask me—you see—I—I should have to answer him, shouldn't I?"

"You would have to answer him!" the Skipper repeated, frowning thoughtfully. "And you could not tell him that there were flying-fish in the cabin, eh, Colorado? Wait then, that your friend thinks. The mind moves at times slowly, my son, slowly!"

He was silent, and John watched him, breathless.

Presently, "Will you come with me, Colorado?" asked the Skipper. "I invite you to come, to spend the day on the 'Nautilus,' to play with Jack and Jim, to polish the shells,—what you please. I desire not longer to wait here, I desire not that yet Sir Scraper know of my visit. Had he been here, other happenings might have been; as it is—shortly, will you come with me, Colorado?"

John shut his eyes tight, and took possession of his soul.

"I promised!" he said, "I promised him that if he would not whip me this morning I would not stir off the place. He was mad because I went yesterday, and he was going to give me a good one this morning, and I hadn't got over the last good one, and so—I promised that! But if I had known you were coming," he cried, "I would not have promised, and I would have taken three good ones, if I could only go."

The Skipper nodded, and was silent again. Suddenly he rose to his feet.

"Have you heard of pirates, Colorado?" he asked, abruptly.

John nodded, wondering.

"Of Malay pirates?" the Skipper continued, with animation. "They are wild fellows, those! They come, they see a person, they carry him off, to keep at their fancy, till a ransom is paid, or till he grow old and die, or till they kill him the next day, who knows? But not all are bad fellows, and there are some of them who are kind to captives, who take them on board their ships, play with them, show to them strange things, shells and fish and corals, all things. Have you ever played at pirate, Colorado?"

"Yes, sometimes," the boy admitted, wondering still more at the brightness in his friend's look, and his air of sudden determination.

"I never played Malay, only Portugee; I thought they weren't so cruel, but I don't know. I had a ship down by the wharf, and I made a good many pirate voyages round the wharf, and sometimes quite a piece down river, when I could get the time. But then, after a while, I thought it was nicer to be a rescuing ship, and get folks away from the pirates, you know, so I've done that lately, and I've rescued as many as twenty vessels, I should think."

"That was fine!" said the Skipper, nodding sagely. "That was well done, Colorado! But here we come to trouble, do you see? for I that speak to you—I am a Malay pirate!"

The boy started violently and looked up, expecting he knew not what sudden and awful change in the face that bent down over him; but no! it was the same quiet, dark face, only there was a bright gleam in the eyes. A gleam of fun, was it? Surely not of ferocity.

"I come up this river," the Skipper continued, rapidly, "to see what I find,—perhaps gold, perhaps silver, perhaps prisoners of value. I look about, I see the pleasant village, I see persons very amiable, but no precious thing except one; that one, I have it! I am a Malay pirate, Colorado, and thus I carry off my prize!" and picking up the child as if he were a feather, and tossing him up to his shoulder, the Skipper strode from the garden, and took his way toward the wharf.

CHAPTER VI.

MR. BILL HEN.

Mr. Bill Hen Pike had come to have a good long gossip. It was some time since a schooner had come up the river, for the ice-shipping had not yet begun, and he was fairly thirsting for maritime intelligence. He desired to know the tonnage of the "Nautilus," her age, where she was built, and by whom; her original cost, and what sums had been expended in repairs since she had been in the Skipper's possession; how many trips she had made, to what ports, and with what cargoes; the weather that had been encountered on each and every trip. These things and many more of like import did the Skipper unfold, sitting at ease on the cabin table, while Mr. Bill Hen tilted the only chair in rhythmic content. His hat was tilted, too; his broad red face shone with pleasure; the world was a good place to him, full of information.

At last the questions came to an end; it seemed a pity, but there was really nothing left to ask, since it appeared that the Skipper was unmarried and had no relations. But now the Skipper's own turn had come, and quietly, with just enough show of interest to be polite, he began the return game. "You have been at sea a large part of your life, Señor Pike?"

"Oh, yes! yes! I'm well used to the sea. That is—off and on, you know, off and on. I was mate on a coasting schooner, saw a good deal that way, you know; like the sea first-rate, but my wife, she won't hear to my going off nowadays, and there's the farm to 'tend to, stock and hay, var'ous things, var'ous things; all about it, my sea-going days are over, yes, yes! Pleasant place, though, pleasant place, though the strength going out of my legs makes it troublesome by times, yes, yes! Been in these parts before, you said? Oh, no! said you hadn't; beg your pardon! Pleasant part of the country! good soil, good neighbours."

"Fine country, I should suppose!" said the Skipper; "and as you say, sir, the persons agreeable for knowledge. You know the boy whom I hear called John, with the old gentleman who collects shells?"

"Oh! ho!" said Mr. Bill Hen, delighted to find a fresh subject of interest. "Deacon Scraper, yes, yes! well named, sir, Deacon Scraper is, well named, you see! Very close man, pizeon close they do say. Lived here all his life, Deacon Scraper has, and made a fortune. Scraped it, some say, out of folks as weren't so well off as he, but I don't know. Keen after shells, the old gentleman, yes, yes! like liquor to him, I've heard say. Never a man to drink or what you might call royster, no way of the world but just that; but get him off to Boston, or any place where there were shells to be bought, and he'd come home fairly drunk with 'em, his trunk busting out and all his money gone. Seems cur'ous, too, for such an old rip as Dym Scraper, to care for such things; but we're made sing'lar,—one one way, and 'nother one t'other. That's so, I reckon, in your part of the world as well as hereabouts?"

The Skipper bowed his head gravely. "The nature of humans is without doubt the same in many lands," he said. "The little boy whom I hear called John,—he is of near blood to this old gentleman, yes?"

But here Mr. Bill Hen grew redder in the face, which was a difficult feat, and smote the cabin table.

"Burning shame it is about that youngster!" he declared. "Burning shame, if ever there was one in this mortal world. How some folks can set by and see things going on as they're going on, beats me, and le' me say I'm hard to beat. That child, sir, is an orphan; got no father nor mother, let alone grandf'ther or grandm'ther, in the land of the living. His father was some kind of a natural, I guess, or else he hadn't known Deacon Scraper by sight or hearing; but when he dies what does he do but leave that old—old—beetle-bug guardeen of that child, case of his mother dyin'. Well, if I'd ha' had children, I might leave 'em to a fox for guardeen, or I might leave 'em to a horned pout, whichever I was a mind to, but I wouldn't leave 'em to Dym Scraper, and you can chalk that up on the door any ways you like." The good man paused, and puffed and snorted for some minutes in silence. The Skipper waited, his dark face quietly attentive, his eyes very bright.

"Near blood?" Mr. Bill Hen broke out again, with another blow on the table. "No, he aint so dretful near blood, if you come to that. Near as the child's got, though, seemin'ly. His father, Johnny's father, was son to Freeborn Scraper, the Deacon's twin brother. Twins they was, though no more alike than pork and peas. Them two, and Zenoby, the sister, who married off with a furriner and was never heerd of again; but she ain't in the story, though some say she was her father's favourite, and that Dym gave her no peace, after Freeborn left, till he got rid of her. All about it, Freeborn went West young, and spent his days there; lived comfortable, and left means when he died. Dym Scraper, he went out to the funeral, and run it, we heerd, Freeborn's wife being dead and his son weakly; anyway, he brung back them two silver coffin-plates that hangs in the parlour to his house. Next thing we knew—good while after, y' understand, but first thing we knew, here to the village—the son was dead, too; Mahlon his name was, and had been weakly all his days. Deacon Scraper went out agin, and kinder scraped round, folks reckoned, 'peared to make of the young widder, and meeched up to her, and all. Wal! And here this last year, if she doesn't up and die! Sing'lar gift folks has for dying out in them parts; living so fur from the sea, I've always cal'lated. All about it, that old spider goes out the third time, and no coffin-plates this time, but he brings back the boy; and lo, ye! he's made full guardeen over the child, and has him, body and soul.

"Now I aint a malicious man, no way of the world, Mister,—well, whatever your name is. But I tell you, that old weasel is laying for something ugly about that youngster. Some say he's applied to send him to the Reform School; good little boy as I'd want to see. I believe it's so. Don't tell me! He's got money, that child has, or land, and Dym Scraper means to have it. The child's got no one in the world to look to, and folks about here are so skeered of Deacon Scraper that they'll set by, I believe, and see a thing like that done before their eyes. I tell ye what, sir, I'm a church-member, and I don't want to say nothing but what's right and proper; but if there was a prophet anyways handy in these times (and a mighty good thing to have round, too), there'd be fire and brimstun called, down on Dym Scraper, and the hull village would turn out to see him get it, too!"

"But you, sir!" said the Skipper, who had his knife out now, and was carving strange things on the table, as was his manner when moved. "You will not permit such a thing, a person of heart as you have the air to be? No, you will not permit that a thing enormous take place at your side?"

Mr. Bill Hen's face grew purple; he drew out a large handkerchief and wiped his forehead, puffing painfully; there was a pause.

"Married man?" he said, at length. "No, beg your pardon, unmarried, I remember. Well, sir, you may know something of life, but there's a sight you don't know yet. See?"

Again there was silence, the Skipper gazing darkly at his carven runes, Mr. Bill Hen still puffing and wiping his brow.

"Yes, there's a sight you don't know about," he said again. "My wife, you see, she's a good woman, there's no better woman round; but she's masterful, sir, she's masterful, and I'm a man who's always led a quiet life and desire peace. And there's more behind; though why on the airth I'm telling you all this is more than I can tell!"

The last words came with a peevish outburst, and he hesitated, as if minded to say no more; but the Skipper raised his head, and the dark eyes sent out a compelling glance. The weaker man faltered, gave way, and resumed his speech.

"She's a masterful woman, I tell ye! She thinks Deacon Scraper is a dangerous man, and there aint nobody here but what'll agree with her that far. Then—he—he's got a mortgage on my farm, same as he has on others,—plenty of others as is better clothed with means than ever I've been; and, all about it, my wife aint willing for us to make an enemy of the old man. That's where the land lays, and you can see for yourself. Plenty in the village is fixed the same way; he's got power, that old grape-skin has, power over better men than he. We don't want to see that child put upon, but we aint no blood to him, and there aint anybody but feels that he himself aint just the one to interfere. That's the way my wife feels, and I,—well, there now! you're a stranger, and I may never set eyes on you again; but I take to you, somehow, and I don't mind telling you that I feel as mean as dirt whenever I think of that lamb in that old fox's den; mean as dirt I feel, and yet I aint got the spunk to—the strenth is gone out of my legs," he added, piteously, "these ten years back, and I think some of my sperrit went with it. That's where it is! I haint got the sperrit to stand up against 'em."

There was a long silence, and then the Skipper shut his knife with a click, and rose from the table, holding out his hand.

"You are a good man, Señor Pike," he said. "I think no worse of you, and am glad to make the acquaintance. With regard to this child, I shall remind you,"—here he shook his head with a backward gesture in which there was something at once proud and humble.—"I shall remind you that there are powers very high, more high than of prophets; and that God will do the works as seems Him good. I may have the honour to wait upon your distinguished lady at a future day; I think to be some days in this place, for purposes of selling my cargo, as well to take in wood and water. Never before in these parts, it is for me of interest to observe the place and people. You will take a lemonade that Franci brings? Hola, Franci! This is Señor Pike, Franci, at all times to be admitted to the schooner."

"Pleased to meet you!" said Mr. Bill Hen.

"Servicio de Usted!" said Franci, who did not understand English except when he thought the speaker was likely to interest him; and they sat down to the lemonade.

CHAPTER VII.

THE CAPTIVE.

"Franci!" the Skipper called up the companion-way, when his visitor had taken his departure.

"Señor!" said Franci, putting his beautiful head over the rail.

"Bring me here the child, hear thou!"

"Si, Señor," said Franci. He went forward, and pulling aside a pile of canvas that lay carelessly heaped together in a corner of the deck, disclosed the boy John, curled up in a ball, with one monkey in his arms, and the other sitting on his shoulder.

"Here, you, Sir Schoolmaster, the Patron ask for you. I give you my hand to hellup you up! I like to put a knife in you!" he added in Spanish, with an adorable smile.

"You'd get one into yourself before you had time!" said Rento, getting up from the spot where his length had been coiled, and speaking with a slow drawl that lent emphasis to the words. "You ever lay a hand on that boy, and it's the last you lay on anybody,—understand that?"

"Oh, yays!" said Franci, gently, as he pulled John out of the tangle of canvas and ropes. "But I am 'most killed all my life with looking at your ugly face, you old she monkey! A little more killing make not much difference to me."

Rento advanced toward him with uplifted hand, and the agile Spaniard slipped round the mast and disappeared.

"What was he saying?" asked John, vaguely feeling that something was wrong.

"Nothin', nothin' at all," Rento said, quietly. "He was givin' me some talk, that was all. It's all he has to give, seemin'ly; kind o' fool person he is, Franci; don't ye take no heed what he says. There, go 'long, youngster! the Skipper's lookin' for ye."

At this moment the Skipper's head appeared over the rail, and John became quite sure that he was awake. Dreams were so curious, sometimes, one never knew what would happen in them; and this whole matter of piracy had been so strange and unlooked for that all the while he had been hidden under the sail (where he had retreated by the Skipper's orders as soon as Mr. Bill Hen Pike appeared in the offing), he had been trying to persuade himself that he was asleep, and that the monkeys were dream-monkeys, very lively ones, and that by-and-by he would wake up once more and find himself in bed at Mr. Scraper's.

But now there could be no more doubt! He could not dream Franci, nor the queer things he said; he could not dream Rento, with his kind, ugly face and drawling speech; least of all could he dream the Skipper, who was now looking at him with an amused smile.

Certainly, he did not look in the least like a pirate! In the first place, Malay pirates did not wear anything, except a kind of short petticoat, and something that flew in the air behind them as they ran. For in the geography-book pictures a Malay was always running amuck, with a creese in his hand, and an expression of frantic rage on his countenance. How could this be a Malay? Perhaps he might have been in fun! But John was not much used to fun, and it seemed hardly likely that so grave a person as the Skipper would play at pirate. On the whole, the little boy was sadly puzzled; and the Skipper's first words did not tend to allay his anxiety.

"Ha! my prisoner!" he said. "That you come here, sir, and sit down by me on the rail. The evening falls, and we will sit here and observe the fairness of the night. Remark that I put no chains on you, Colorado, as in the Malay seas we put them! You can swim, yes?"

John nodded. "I swam across the river last week," said he. "I was going to—" He meant to say, "to rescue some people from pirates," but now this did not seem polite; so he stopped short, but the Skipper took no notice.

"You swim? That is good!" he said. "But Sir Scraper, he cannot swim, I think, my son, so for you there is no rescue, since Rento has pulled in the plank. Are you content, then, to be the captive of the 'Nautilus?'"

John looked up, still sorely puzzled; perhaps he was rather dull, this little boy John, about some things, though he was good at his books. At any rate, there could be no possible doubt of the kindness in the Skipper's face; perhaps he was in fun, after all; and, anyhow, where had he ever been so happy as here since the good mother died? So he answered with right good-will,—

"I like to stay here more than anywhere else in the world. If—if I didn't think Mr. Scraper would be angry and frightened about me, and not know where I was, I should like to stay on board all my life."

"That is right!" said the Skipper, heartily. "That is the prisoner that I like to have. I am not a cruel pirate, as some; I like to make happy my captives. Franci, lemonade, on the after-deck here!" He spoke in Spanish, and Franci replied in the same language, with a faint voice expressive of acute suffering.

"I am very sick, Patron. I go to my bed in a desolated condition."

"Come here, and let me look at you!" said the Skipper, imperatively.

"Am I a dog, to fetch drink for this beggar brat?" was Franci's next remark, in a more vigorous tone. "Was it for this that I left San Mateo? Rento is a pig, let him do the pig things. I go to my bed."

He made a motion to go, but the Skipper reached out a long arm, and the next moment the bold youth was dangling over the side of the vessel, clutching at the air, and crying aloud to all the saints in the calendar.

"Shall I let go?" asked the Skipper, in his quiet tone.

"Ah! no, distinguished Patron!" cried Franci. "Let me not go! This water is abominable. Release me, and I will get the lemonade. It is my wish that you may both be drowned in it, but I will get it,—oh, yes, assuredly!"

He was set down, and vanished into the cabin; the Skipper, as if this were the most ordinary occurrence in the world, led the way to the after-rail, and seated himself, motioning to John to take a place beside him.

"What is the matter with him?" asked the boy, looking after Franci.

"I think him slightly a fool," was the reply, as the Skipper puffed leisurely at his cigar. "His parents, worthy people, desired him to be a sailor, but that he can never be. The best sailor is one born for that, and for no other thing; also, a sailor can be made, though not of so fine quality; but of Franci, no. I return him after this voyage, with compliments, and he sails no more in the 'Nautilus.' And you, Colorado? How is it with you? You love not at all a vessel, I think?"

There certainly could be no doubt this time that the Skipper was making fun; his face was alive with it, and John could have laughed outright for pleasure.

"I don't believe you are a Malay, one bit!" said the child. "I'm not sure that you are a pirate at all, but I know you aren't a Malay."

"Why that, my son?" asked the Skipper, waving the smoke aside, that he might see the child's face the clearer. "Why do you think that? I am not dark enough for a Malay, is it that?"

"No, not that," John admitted. "But—well, you have no creese, and you are not wild, nor—nor fierce, nor cruel."

"But I have the creese!" the Skipper protested. "The creese, would you see it? It is in the cabin, behind the door, with other arms of piracy. Still, Colorado, it is of a fact that I was not born in Polynesia, no. As to the fierceness and the cruelty, we shall see, my son, we shall see. If I kept you here on the 'Nautilus' always, took you with me away, suffered you no more to live with your gentle Sir Scraper, that would be cruelty, do you think it? That would be a fierce pirate, and a cruel one, who would do that?"

John raised his head, and looked long and earnestly in his friend's face. "Of course, I know you are only in fun," he said, at last, "because dreams don't really come true; but—but that was my dream, you know! I think I've dreamed you all my life. At least—well, I never knew just what you looked like, or how you would come; but I always dreamed that some one would come from the sea, and that I should hear about the shells, and know what they were saying when they talk; and—" he paused; but the Skipper patted his shoulder gently, in sign that he understood.

"And—what else, Juan Colorado?" he asked, in what seemed the kindest voice in the world. But the boy John hung his head, and seemed loth to go on.

"There—there was another part to what I dreamed," he said at last. "I guess I won't tell that, please, 'cause, of course, you were only in fun."

"And what the harm to tell it," said the Skipper, lightly, "even if it come not true? Dreams are pretty things; my faith, I love to dream mine self. Tell thy friend, Colorado! tell the dream, all the wholeness of it."

There was no resisting the deep, sweet voice. The little boy raised his head again, and looked frankly into the kind, dark eyes.

"I used to dream that I was taken away!" he said, in a low voice.

"Away? Good!" the Skipper repeated.

"Away," the boy murmured, and his voice grew soft and dreamy. "Away from the land, and the fields where the grass dries up so soon, and winter comes before you are ready to be cold. Some one would come and take me in a ship, and I should live always on the water, and it would rock me like a cradle, and I should feel as if I had always lived there. And I should see the flying-fish and dolphins, and know how the corals grow, and see things under the sea. And nobody would beat me then, and I should not have to split wood when it makes my back ache. That was the other part of my dream."

The Skipper laid his hand lightly on the child's head and smoothed back the red curls. "Who knows?" he said, with a smile. "Who knows what may come of dreams, Colorado? Here the one-half is come true, already at this time. Why not the other?" He turned away as if to change the subject, and took up a piece of the white branching coral that lay at his elbow. "When I gather this," he said in a lighter tone, "it was a day in the last year; I remember well that day! A storm had been, and still the sea was rough a little, but that was of no matter. Along the island shore we were cruising, and I saw through the water, there very clear, fine trees."

"Trees?" repeated the wondering child.

"Of coral, naturally!" said the Skipper. "Coral trees, Juan, shining bright, bright, through the green water.

"'Hola, you! lower anchor!'

"It is done. I put on the diving dress. I take a rope about my waist, I descend. There a forest I find; very beautiful thing to see. Here we see green trees, and in your north, in fall of year, bright colours, but there colours of rainbow all the year round. In one place bright yellow, branch and twig of gold purely; the next, purple of a king's garment, colour of roses, colour of peach-blossom in the spring. Past me, as I descend, float fans of the fan-coral, lilac, spreading a vine-work, trellis, as your word is. On the one side are cliffs of mountains, with caves in their sides, and from these caves I see come out many creatures; the band-fish, a long ribbon of silver with rose shining through; the Isabelle fish, it is violet and green and gold, like a queen. Under my feet, see, Colorado! sand white like the snow of your winter, fine, shining with many bright sparks. And this is a garden; for all on every hand flowers are growing. You have seen a cactus, that some lady keeps very careful in her window, tending that it die not? Yes! Here is the white ground covered with these flowers completely, only of more size hugely, crimson, pale, the heart of a rose, the heart of a young maiden. Sea-anemones are these, Colorado, many, many kinds, all very fine to see. And here, too, on the ground are my shells, not as here, when of their brightness the half is gone for want of the life and the water, but full of gleams very glorious, telling of greatness in their making. Here above the water, my little child, I find persons many who doubt of a great God who maketh all things for good, and to grow in the end better; but to have been under the sea, that is to know that it cannot be otherwise; a true sailor learns many things that are not fully known upon the land, where one sees not so largely His mercy."

He was silent for a moment, and then went on, the child sitting rapt, gazing at him with eyes which saw all the wonders of which he told.

"All these things I saw through the clear water, as if through purest glass I looked. I broke the branches, which now you see white and cleaned, but then all splendid with these colours whereof I tell you. Many branches I broke, putting them in pouches about my waist and shoulders. At once, I see a waving in the water, over my head; I look up to see a shark swim slowly round and round, just having seen me, and making his preparations. I have my knife ready, for often have I met this gentleman before. I slip behind the coral tree, and wait; but he is a stupid beast, the shark, and knows not what to do when I come not out. So up I quickly climb through the branches, with care not to tangle the rope; he still looking for me at the spot where first he saw me. I gain the top, and with a few pulls of my good Rento on the rope, I am in the boat, and Sir Shark is snapping his teeth alone, very hungry, but not invited to dinner."

"Do you think he was stronger than you?" asked the little boy. "You're very strong, aren't you? I should think you were as strong as sharks, and 'most as strong as whales."

The Skipper laughed. "Sir Shark is ten times so strong as any man, let him be of the best, my friend; but he has not the strength of head, you understand; that makes the difference. And you, could you do that, too? Could you keep yourself from fear, when the sea-creatures come about you, if you should ever be a sailor? What think you?"

The child pondered.

"I think I could!" he said at last.

"I never saw any such things, of course, but I'm not afraid of anything that I know about, here on shore. There was a snake," he went on, lowering his voice, "last summer there was a snake that lived in a hole by the school-house, and he was a poison snake, an adder. One day he crept out of his hole and came into the school-house, and scared them all 'most to death. The teacher fainted away, and all the children got up into a corner on the table, and the snake had the whole floor to himself. But it looked funny to see them all that way over a little beast that wasn't more than two foot long; so I thought about it, and then I went to the wood-box (we were burning brushwood then) and got a stick with a little fork at the end, and I came up quick behind the snake, and clapped that down over his neck, so he couldn't turn his head round, and then I took another stick and killed him. That's only a little thing, but I wasn't afraid at all, and I thought perhaps it would show whether I would be good for anything when there were real things to be afraid of."

The Skipper nodded in his pleasant, understanding way. "I think so, too, Colorado," he said. "I think so, too! That was like my boy Rento, but not like Franci. Franci dies every time he see a snake, and come to life only to find out if somebody else is killed. See, my son, how beautiful the moon on the water! Let us look for a few moments, to take the beauty into us, and then I must send my little friend to his bed, that nothing harmful comes to him."

So they sat hand in hand for awhile, gazing their fill, saying nothing; there was the same look in the two faces, so widely different. The little boy, with his clear brow, his blue eyes limpid as a mountain pool, shining with the heavens reflected in them; the dark Spaniard (if he were a Spaniard!) with lines of sadness, shadows of thought and of bitter experience, making his bronze face still darker; what was there alike in these two, who had come together from the ends of the earth? The thought was one, in both hearts, and the look of it shone in the eyes of both as they sat in the moonlight white and clear. What was the thought? Look into the face of your child as it kneels to pray at close of day! Look into the face of any good and true man when he is lifted above the things of to-day, and sees the beauty and the mystery, and hears the eternal voices sounding!

CHAPTER VIII.

IN THE NIGHT.

The evening had been peaceful, all beauty and silence; but not so the night for the boy John. Something was the matter; he could not sleep. The bunk in the little cabin was comfortable enough for anyone, but to him it was a couch for an emperor. He speculated on the probability of George the Third's having had anything like so luxurious a bed, and rejected the thought as absurd. There were no lumps in the mattress, neither any holes through which sharp fingers of straw came out and scratched him. The red curtains at the sides could be drawn at will, and, drawing them, he found himself in a little world of his own, warm and still and red. The shells were outside in the other world; he could look out at any moment and see them, and touch them, take them up; his friend had said so. Now, however, it seemed best just to be alive, and to stay still and wonder what would become of him. He heard the Skipper come down and go to bed, and soon the sound of deep, regular breathing told that he slept, the man of wonder; but John could not sleep. And now other thoughts came thronging into his mind, thoughts that were not soft and crimson and luxurious. To go away, as the Skipper had said,—to go to heaven! But one did not go to heaven till the time came. Was it right? Was the Skipper a good man?

The child debated the question with anguish, lying with wide open eyes in his crimson-shaded nest. Mr. Scraper was—not—very nice, perhaps; but he had taken him, John, when his mother died, and fed and clothed him. He had often had enough to eat—almost enough—and—and Mr. Scraper was old, and perhaps pretty soon his legs would go to sleep, like old Captain Baker's, and he would not be able to walk at all, and then how would it be if he were left alone? Perhaps people would not come to help him, as they had helped the captain, because everybody in the village loved the captain, and no one exactly loved Mr. Scraper. So if the only person who belonged to him at all should go off and leave him, how could it be expected that the folks who had their own grandfathers and things to take care of would stop and go to take care of this old man? And if he should die there, all alone, with no one to read to him or bring him things, or feed him with a spoon, why,—how would it seem to himself, the boy John's self, when he should hear of it?

"I am a murderer!" he said aloud; and straightway, at the sound of his own voice, cowered under the bedclothes, and felt the hangman's hand at his neck.

What did it mean, when a person could not sleep?

There was a man in an old book there at the house, and he was wicked, and he never could sleep, never at all. The things he had done came and sat on him, and they were hot, like coals, and the heat went through to his heart and burned it. Would it be so with him, if he should go away in the "Nautilus," and forget—or try to forget—the old man who had nobody to love him? Not that Mr. Scraper wanted to be loved yet, at all; but—but he might, some time, when his legs had gone to sleep, and then—

Sometimes, when a person could not sleep, it meant that he was going to die. Suppose one were to die now, and go to heaven, and they said to one, "How was Mr. Scraper when you came away?" and one had to say, "I ran away and left him this evening, and I don't know how he is, or whether he is alive or dead—for sometimes old people die just like that, dropping down in their chairs—what would they say to one? Perhaps the old man had dropped down now, this very night, from anger at his being away when he should have done the chores". He saw Mr. Scraper sitting in his arm-chair, cold and dead, with the rats running over the floor at his feet, because he, John, had not set the trap. A scream rose to his lips, but he choked it back; and sitting up in desperation, drew aside the red curtains and looked out.

The cabin lay dim and quiet before him. A lantern hung in the middle, turned low, and by its light he could see the shelves, with their shining rows of shells, and the glass counter with the sea-jewelry. Directly opposite him, only the narrow space of the cabin between, lay the Skipper in his bunk, sleeping peacefully. The wild fear died away in the child's heart as he saw the calmness and repose of the stalwart figure. One arm was thrown out; the strong, shapely hand lay with the palm open toward him, and there was infinite cheer and hospitality in the attitude. In the dim light the Skipper's features looked less firm and more kind; yet they were always kind. It was not possible that this was a bad man, a stealer of children, a pilferer of old men's cupboards.

If one could think that he had been playing all the time, making believe, just as a person did one's self; but John had never known any grown people who could make believe; they had either forgotten, or else they were ashamed of the knowledge. Once, it was true, he had persuaded Mr. Bill Hen Pike to be Plymouth Rock, when he wanted to land in the "Mayflower;" but just as the landing was about to be effected, Mrs. Pike had called wrathfully from the house, and the rock sprang up and shambled off without even a word of apology or excuse. So grown people did not understand these things, probably; and yet,—yet if it had been play, what glorious times one could have, with a real creese, and a real schooner, and everything delightful in the world!

How could he be bad and look like that? The child bent forward and strained his eyes on the sleeping face. So quiet, so strong, so gentle! He tried putting other faces beside it, for he saw faces well, this boy, and remembered what he had seen. He tried Mr. Scraper's face, with the ugly blink to the red eyes, and the two wrinkles between the eyes, and the little nest of spiteful ones that came about his mouth when he was going to be angry; even when he slept—the old gentleman—his hands were clenched tight—how different from that open palm, with its silent welcome!—and his lips pursed up tight. No! no! that was not a pleasant picture! Well, there was Lena! she was pleasant to look at, surely! Her hair was like silver, and her eyes blue and soft, though they could be sharp, too. But, somehow, when her face was brought here beside the Skipper's, it looked foolish and empty, and her pretty smile had nothing to say except to bid one look and see how pretty she was, and how becoming blue was to her; and—and, altogether, she would not do at all.

Mr. Bill Hen, then, who was always kind to him, and quite often, when. Mrs. Pike was not near, would give him a checkerberry lozenge. Mr. Bill Hen's face was good-natured, to be sure, but oh, how coarse and red and stupid it was beside the fine dark sleeping mask! Why did people look so different, and more when they were asleep than any other time? Did one's soul come out and kind of play about, and light up the person's face; and if so, was it not evident that the Skipper was a good man? and that perhaps things were really different in his country, and they had other kinds of Ten Commandments, and—no, but right was right, and it didn't make any difference about countries in that sort of thing. You knew that yourself, because you felt it in your stomach when you did bad things; perhaps when one grew older, one's stomach did not feel so quickly. And, anyhow, if that was true about the soul, how do you suppose a person's own soul would make his face look if he was running away from the things he ought to do, and going to play with monkeys and see the wonders of the world? The boy wondered what he was looking like at the present moment, and summoned up the image of a frightful picture of a devil in another of those old books into which he was forever peeping at odd times. Did they miss him now, the old books in the garret, because he had not come up to wish them good-night and take a look at some of the best pictures before he went to bed? Was he likely to turn into a devil when he died, do you suppose?

How still it was, and how queer his eyes felt! But he could not lie down, for then he would be alone again, and the things would come and sit on him; it was good to sit up and look at the Skipper, and wonder—and wonder—

A gleam, faint and red, shot from a shell in the farther corner,—a splendid creature, scarlet and pale green, with horns that gave it a singularly knowing look. He almost thought it nodded to him; and hark! was that a tiny voice speaking, calling him by name?

"Come away, little boy!" said the voice. "Come away to the south, where the water is blue always, and storms come rarely, rarely! There, under the water, my brothers and sisters wait to see you, and with them their friends, the lovely ones, of whom you have dreamed all your life. There, on beds of sea-moss, they lie, and the rainbow is dull beside them. Flowers are there, and stars, and bells that wave softly without sound. For one fair thing that the man, our master, told you of, we have a thousand to show you. What does he know, a man, whose eyes are already half-shut? But you are a child, and for you all things shall be opened under the ocean, and you shall see the treasures of it, and the wonders; and you shall grow wise, wise, so that men shall look up to you, and shall say, 'Where did he gain his knowledge?' And your friend shall be with you, oh yes, for he knows the way, if he cannot see all the things that will meet your eyes! And you and he together shall sail—shall sail, through waters green as chrysoprase; and all the sea-creatures shall learn to know you and love you. You shall learn where the sea-otter makes his nest, in the leaves of the giant sea-weed, where they stretch along the water, full sixty feet long, as the Skipper told you. The 'Nautilus' will be there, too: not a clumsy wooden mountain, like this in which we lie prisoned, but the creature itself, the fairy thing of pearl and silver! Look! here lies his shell, and you find it lovely; but like us, it is dim and dead for want of the life within it.

"Come away, and let us be sailing, sailing over seas of gold! And when you are weary of the top of the waves, down you shall sink with us through the clear green water, and the night will fall like a soft dream, and the moon-fish, with its disk of silver, shall gleam beside you to light the dimness that yet is never dark; and you shall go down, down, down—"

And about this time it must have been that the little boy went down, for when the morning broke, the Skipper found him, fast asleep, and smiling as he slept.

CHAPTER IX.

FAMILY MATTERS.

"Well," said Mr. Bill Hen, "I only want to put it to you, you understand. Intelligent man like you, no need for me to do more than put it to you. There's the child, and there's the old man, and they 'pear to have got separated. I don't want to be understood as implying anything, not anything in the living world; but there's where it is, you see. And me being a justice of the peace, and sworn, you observe, to—well, I'm sure you will see for yourself the position I'm placed in. Point is, you seemed consid'able interested in the child, as one may say. Nothing strange in that,—nice little boy! would interest an Injin chief, if he had any human feelin' in him. But bein' a justice of the peace, you see,—well, Mr. Scraper has sent me to make inquiries, and no offence in the world, I trust—no insult, you understand, if I jest—well, all about it—do you know where in thunder the child is?"

Mr. Bill Hen, standing on the bank, delivered himself of these remarks with infinite confusion, perspiring freely, and wiping his face with a duster, which he had brought by mistake instead of a handkerchief. He looked piteously at the Skipper, who stood leaning over the side, cheerfully inscrutable, clad in spotless white, and smoking a long cigar.

"The child?" the Skipper repeated, thoughtfully. "You allude to the boy called John, Señor Pike; yes, I had that suppose. Now, sir, the day before this, you tell me that this child is not well placed by that old gentleman Scraper; that the old man is cruel, is base, is a skin-the-flint, shortly. You tell me this, and I make reply to you that there are powers more high than this old person, who have of that child charge. How, if those powers had delivered to me the child? how then, I ask you, Señor Pike?"

Mr. Bill Hen wiped his brow again and gasped feebly. "'Tis as I thought!" he said. "You've got the child aboard."

The Skipper nodded, and blew rings from his cigar. "I have the child," he repeated, "aboard. What will you in this case do, Señor? I propose to take him with me away, to make of him a sailor, to care for him as my son. You think well of this; you have been kind to the child always, as he tell me? You are glad to have him remove from the slavery of this old fish, yes?" He smiled, and bent his dark eyes on his unhappy visitor.

Mr. Bill Hen writhed upon the hook. "There—there's truth in what you say," he admitted, at length, after seeking counsel in vain from his red bandanna. "There's truth in what you say, I aint denyin' that. But what I look at, you see, is my duty. You may have your idees of duty, and I may have mine; and I'm a justice of the peace, and I don't see anything for it but to ask you to give up that child to his lawful guardeen, as has sent me for him."

A pause ensued, during which Franci sauntered to the side with easy grace. "Shall I put a knife into him, Patron?" he asked, indicating Mr. Bill Hen with a careless nod. "How well he would stick, eh? The fatness of his person! It is but to say the word, Patron."

Mr. Bill Hen recoiled with a look of horror, and prepared for instant flight; but the Skipper's gesture reassured him. "Franci, look if there is a whale on the larboard bow!" said the latter.

"Perfectly, Patron!" replied Franci, withdrawing with his most courtly bow. "When I say that no one will be killed at all in this cursed place, and I shall break my heart! but as you will."

Again there was a pause, while Mr. Bill Hen wondered if this were a floating lunatic asylum or a nest of pirates, that had come so easily up their quiet river and turned the world topsy-turvy. At length—"Your force, Señor Pike," the Skipper said, "I perceive it not, for to take away this child. Have you the milizia—what you call soldiers, police—have you them summoned and concealed behind the rocks, as in the theatres of Havana? I see no one but your one self. Surely you have no thought to take the child of your own force from me?"

Mr. Bill Hen gasped again. "Look here!" he broke out at last. "What kind of man are you, anyway? you aint no kind that we're used to in these parts, so now I tell you! When a man hears what is law in this part of the world, he gives in, as is right and proper, to that law and that—and—and in short to them sentiments. Are you going to stand out against the law, and keep that child? and who give you a right to do for that child? I suppose I can ask that question, if you are a grandee, or whatever you are. Who give you a right, I ask?"

"Who shall say?" replied the Skipper. "Perhaps—" He said no more, but raised his hand with a gesture that was solemn enough; and Mr. Bill Hen Pike decided that he was beyond doubt a madman. But now the Skipper dropped his tone and attitude of smiling ease, and, throwing away his cigar, stood upright. "Enough, Señor!" he said. "You are a good man, but you have not the courage. Now, you shall see Colorado." He turned toward the cabin and called: "Colorado, my son, come to me!" Then, after a pause, "He sleeps yet. Rento, bring to me the child!" Rento, who had been hovering near, lending a careful ear to all that was said, now vanished, and reappeared, bearing the boy John in his arms. The child was but newly awake, and was still rubbing his eyes and looking about him in bewilderment.

"Colorado, the Señor Pike, already well known to you!" said the Skipper, with a graceful wave of the hand. "Your guardian, the old gentleman Scraper, desires of our company at breakfast. How then, son of mine? Shall we go, or shall I keep you here, and bid Sir Scraper find his way to the devil, which will be for him little difficult?" He smiled on the boy, and took his hand with a caressing gesture.

Little John heaved a great sigh, and the cares of the world floated from him like a summer cloud. "Oh, I knew it!" he cried, smiling joyously up into his friend's face. "I knew it all the time, or almost all! You never meant anything but fun, did you? and we will go back, won't we? And we shall feel all right inside, and things will not sit—I—I mean nothing will feel bad any more. I—I can't say all I mean," he added, rather lamely, "because I had thoughts in the night; but we will go now, you and I, you and I!"

As they approached the gate, John stopped a moment, and looked up at his companion. "Would you mind holding my hand?" he asked. "I am all right in my mind, but I think I am rather queer in my legs; I think I should feel better if I held the hand of—of somebody who wasn't little, or—or weak."

Oh, the strong, cordial pressure of the big, brown hand! how it sent warmth and cheer and courage through the little quivering frame! John was all right in his mind, as he said, but his body felt already the stinging blows of the cane, his ears rang already with the burning words of rage and spite.

"But it is the inside that matters!" said John, aloud; and he shut his eyes and went into the house.

"Good-morning, gentleman," the Skipper began, always at his courteous ease.

"I have to ask your forgiveness, that I carry off yesterday our young friend here. You were not at house, I desired greatly of his company; I have the ways of the sea, waiting not too long for the things I like; briefly, I take him away. That I bear the blame of this is my desire. And now, shall we pleasantly converse, ha?"

He seated himself, drew the boy between his knees, and looked Mr. Scraper squarely in the eyes. Now, Mr. Scraper did not like to be looked at in this manner; he shifted on his chair, and his mouth, which had been opened to pour out a flood of angry speech, closed with a spiteful snap, and then opened, and then closed again.

The Skipper observed these fish-like snappings with grave attention. At length,—

"Who are you, I should like to know?" the old man cried in an angry twitter.

"Why in—why do you come meddling here, and carrying off boys from their lawful guardeens, and talking folderol, and raising Ned generally? I've seen skippers before, but I never heered of no such actions as these, never in my days! Why, no one here so much as knows your name; and here you seem to own the hull village, all of a sudden. You, John," he added, with a savage snarl, "you go about your business, and I'll see to you afterwards. I reckon you won't go out again without leave for one while!"

The child started obediently, but the strong hand held him fast.

"Quiet, Colorado," said the Skipper. "Quiet, my son! Time enough for the work, plenty time! I desire you here now, see you." Then he turned once more to the old man.

"You have, I already say, a beautiful name, Sir Scraper," he said with cheerful interest. "Endymion! a fine name, truly—of poetry, of moonlight and beauty; you have had great joy of that name, I cannot doubt?"

"What's my name to you, I should like to know?" retorted Mr. Scraper, with acrimony. "This aint the first time you've took up my name, and I'll thank you to leave it alone! You let go that boy, or I'll let you know more 'n you knew before."

"Perfectly!" said the Skipper. "Attend but a moment, dear sir. Let us pursue for a moment thoughts of poetry! Such a name as Endymion proves a poetic fancy in the giver of it; at a guess, this was your lady mother, now probably with the saints, and if others so fortunate as to belong to your family, surely this excellent lady would have given to them, also, names of soul, of poetry! If there was a sister, for example, would she be named Susan? No! Jane? Never! Find me then a name! Come! at a venture. Zenobia? Aha! what say you?"

He leaned forward, and his glance was like the flash of a sword. The child looked in wonder from one to the other; for the old man had sunk back in his chair, and his jaw had fallen open in an ugly way, and altogether he was a sad object to look at.

"What—what d'ye mean?" he gasped, after a moment. But the Skipper went on, speaking lightly and cheerfully, as if talking of the weather.

"What pleasure to bring before the mind a picture of a family so charming! Of you, dear sir, in your gracious childhood, how endearing the image! how tenderly guarded, how fondly cherished here by your side the little sister? Ah! the smiling picture, making glad the heart! This sister, Zenobia, let us say, grows up, after what happy childhood with such a brother needs for me not to say. They are three, these children,—how must they love each other! But one brother goes early away from the home! In time comes for Zenobia, as to young maidens will come, a suitor, a foreigner, shall we say? a man, like myself, of the sea? May it not have been possible, dear sir?"

"A roving nobody!" the old man muttered, striving to pull himself together. "A rascally"—but here he stopped abruptly, for a stern hand was laid on his arm.

"I am speaking at this present, sir!" said the Skipper. "Of this man I do not ask you the character. I tell my story, if you please, in my own way.

"The mother, by this time, is dead. The father, unwilling to part with his daughter,—alas! the parental heart, how must it be torn? As yours, the tender one, last night, on missing this beloved child, Sir Scraper. The father, I say, opposes the marriage; at length only, and after many tears, much sorrow, some anger, consents; the daughter, sister, Zenobia, goes with her husband away, promising quickly to return, to take her old father to her home in the southern islands. Ah, the interesting tale, is it not? Observe, Colorado, my son, how I am able to move this, your dear guardian. The pleasant thing, to move the mind of age, so often indifferent.

"Zenobia goes away, and the son, the good son, the one faithful and devoted, who will not marry, so great his love for his parent, is left with that parent alone. How happy can we fancy that parent, is it not? How gay for him the days, how sweet for him the nights, lighted with love, and smoothed his pillow by loving hands,—ah, the pleasant picture! But how, my friend, you feel yourself not well? Colorado, a glass of water for your guardian."

The old man motioned the child back, his little eyes gleaming with rage and fear.

"You—you come a-nigh me, you brat, and I'll wring your neck!" he gasped. "Well, Mister, have you finished your—your story, as you call it? Why do I want to listen to your pack of lies, I should like to know? I wonder I've had patience to let you go on so long."

"Why do you want to listen?" the Skipper repeated. "My faith, do I know? But the appearance of interest in your face so venerable, it touch me to the heart. Shall I go and tell the rest of my story to him there, that other, the justice of the peace? But no, it would break your heart to hear not the end. That we proceed then, though not so cheerful the ending of my story. Zenobia, in her southern home, happy, with her child at her knee, feels still in her heart the desire to see once more her father, to bring him to her, here in the warm south to end his days of age. She writes, but no answer comes; again she writes, and again, grief in her soul, to think that anger is between her and one so dear. At last, after a long time, a letter from her brother, the stay-at-home, the faithful one; their father is dead; is dead,—without speaking of her; the property is to him left, the faithful son. It is finished, it is concluded, the earth is shut down over the old man, and no more is to say.

"With what tender, what loving words this cruel news tells itself, needs not to repeat to a person so of feeling as yourself, Sir Scraper. Zenobia, sad woman, believes what she is told; bows her head, gathers to her closer her husband and her son, and waits the good time when God shall make to her good old father the clear knowledge that she has always loved him. Ah, yes, my faith!

"Now, in a year, two years, I know not, what arrives? A letter, old and worn; a letter soiled, discoloured, of carrying long in a sailor's pocket, but still easily to be read. This letter—shall we guess, Sir Scraper? Well, then, from her father! The old man in secret, in fear, lying on his bed of death, makes come by stealth a neighbour, kindly disposed to him; makes write by his hand this letter; makes draw up besides, it may be, other papers, what do we know?

"Ah! but remain quiet, dear sir. Grieved that I do not interest you, I must still pray of your presence, that you do not yet withdraw it. Ancient fish-skin, do I tie thee in thy chair?

"So! that is well, and you will remain quiet, Señor, with a thousand pardons!

"This letter, then, it is one to wring the heart. He has longed for his daughter, this poor old man; in two grasping hands held as in a vise, he turns to her who was always kind, he prays her to return, to let him come to her, what she will. Failing this, and knowing that on earth the time is short for him to remain, he bids her not grieve, but send to her home a messenger of trust, and let him look for a certain paper, in a certain place. Finally, he prays for her the blessing of God, this good old man, and bids her farewell, if he may never see her more. Truly, a letter over which a pirate, even a Malay pirate, Colorado of my heart, might shed tears."

The Skipper's voice was still quiet, but its deep tones were stern with suppressed feeling; with menace, was it? The child, bewildered, looked from one to the other of his two companions. The Spaniard's eyes burned red in their depths, his glance seemed to pierce marrow and sinew; he sat leaning lightly forward in his chair, alert, possessing himself, ready for any sudden movement on the part of his adversary; for the old man must be his adversary; something deadly must lie between these two. Mr. Scraper lay back in his chair like one half dead, yet the rage and spite and hatred, the baffled wonder, the incredulity struggling with what was being forced upon him, made lively play in his sunken face. His lean hands clutched the arms of the chair as if they would rend the wood; his frame shook with a palsy. Little John wondered what could ail his guardian; yet his own heart was stirred to its depths by what he had heard.

"The son was bad!" he cried. "He was a bad man! Things must have sat upon his breast all night, and I am sure he could not sleep at all. Are you sorry for a person who is as bad as that? do you think any one tried to help him to be better?"

But the Skipper raised his finger, and pointed to the evil face of the old man.

"Does that man look as if he slept, my son?" he asked.

"Listen always, and you shall hear the last of the story."

"It's a lie!" Mr. Scraper screamed at last, recovering the power of speech.

"It's a lie that you've cooked up from what you have heard from the neighbours. May their tongues rot out! And if it were true as the sun, what is it to you? She's dead, I tell you! She's been dead these twenty years! I had the papers telling of her death; I've got 'em now, you fool."

"Quiet then, my uncle!" said the Skipper, bending forward, and laying his hand on the old man's knee.

"She is dead, she died in these arms. I am her son, do you see?"

But if Mr. Scraper saw, it was only for a moment, for he gave a scream, and fell together sideways in his chair, struck with a fit.