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“It’s you he’s after, I tell you,” said the mate. “Who do you want, Billy?”

“I want my father,” cried the youth, and, to prevent any mistake, indicated the raging skipper with his finger.

“Who do you want?” bellowed the latter, in a frightful voice.

“Want you, father,” chirrupped Master Jones.

Wrath and dismay struggled for supremacy in the skipper’s face, and he paused to decide whether it would be better to wipe Master Jones off the face of the earth or to pursue his way in all the strength of conscious innocence. He chose the latter course, and, a shade more erect than usual, walked on until he came in sight of his house and his wife, who was standing at the door.

“You come along o’ me, Jem, and explain,” he whispered to the mate. Then he turned about and hailed the crew. The crew, flattered at being offered front seats in the affair, came forward eagerly.

“What’s the matter?” inquired Mrs. Hunt, eyeing the crowd in amazement as it grouped itself in anticipation.

“Nothing,” said her husband, off-handedly.

“Who’s that boy?” cried the innocent woman.

“It’s a poor little mad boy,” began the skipper; “he came aboard–“

“I’m not mad, father,” interrupted Master Jones.

“A poor little mad boy,” continued the skipper, hastily, “who came aboard in London and said poor old Sam Brown was his father.”

“No–you, father,” cried the boy, shrilly.

“He calls everybody his father,” said the skipper, with a smile of anguish; “that’s the form his madness takes. He called Jem here his father.”

“No, he didn’t,” said the mate, bluntly.

“And then he thought Charlie was his father.”

“No, sir,” said Mr. Legge, with respectful firmness.

“Well, he said Sam Brown was,” said the skipper.

“Yes, that’s right, sir,” said the crew. “Where is Sam?” inquired Mrs. Hunt, looking round expectantly.

“He deserted the ship at Withersea,” said her husband.

“I see,” said Mrs. Hunt, with a bitter smile, “and these men have all come up prepared to swear that the boy said Sam was his father. Haven’t you?”

“Yes, mum,” chorused the crew, delighted at being understood so easily.

Mrs. Hunt looked across the road to the fields stretching beyond. Then she suddenly brought her gaze back, and, looking full at her husband, uttered just two words–

“Oh, Joe!”

“Ask the mate,” cried the frantic skipper.

“Yes, I know what the mate’ll say,” said Mrs. Hunt. “I’ve no need to ask him.”

“Charlie and Harry were with Sam when the boy came up to them,” protested the skipper.

“I’ve no doubt,” said his wife. “Oh, Joe! Joe! Joe!”

There was an uncomfortable silence, during which the crew, standing for the most part on one leg in sympathy with their chief’s embarrassment, nudged each other to say something to clear the character of a man whom all esteemed.

“You ungrateful little devil,” burst out Mr. Legge, at length; “arter the kind way the skipper treated you, too.”

“Did he treat him kindly?” inquired the captain’s wife, in conversational tones.

“Like a fa–like a uncle, mum,” said the thoughtless Mr. Legge. “Gave ‘im a passage on the ship and fairly spoilt ‘im. We was all surprised at the fuss ‘e made of ‘im; wasn’t we, Harry?”

He turned to his friend, but on Mr. Green’s face there was an expression of such utter scorn and contempt that his own fell. He glanced at the skipper, and was almost frightened at his appearance.

The situation was ended by Mrs. Hunt entering the house and closing the door with an ominous bang. The men slunk off, headed by Mr. Legge; and the mate, after a few murmured words of encouragement to the skipper, also departed. Captain Hunt looked first at the small cause of his trouble, who had drawn off to some distance, and then at the house. Then, with a determined gesture, he turned the handle of the door and walked in. His wife, who was sitting in an armchair, with her eyes on the floor, remained motionless.

“Look here, Polly–,” he began.

“Don’t talk to me,” was the reply. “I wonder you can look me in the face.”