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“What’s that wee thing you’re blowin’?” says he.

“This here small contrivance, my son,” says I, “is called a flute.”

The lad scowled.

“Is she?” says he.

“Ay,” says I, wonderin’ wherein I had offended the wee feller; “that’s the name she goes by in the parts she hails from.”

“Hm-m,” says he.

I seed that he wasn’t thinkin’ about the flute–that he was broodin’. All at once, then, I learned what ’twas about.

“I isn’t your son,” says he.

“That’s true,” says I. “What about it?”

“Well, you called me your son, didn’t you?”

“Oh, well,” says I, “I didn’t mean—-“

“What you do it for?”

‘Twas a demand. The wee lad was stirred an’ earnest. An’ why? I was troubled. ‘Twas a queer thing altogether. I seed that a man must walk warily in answer lest he bruise a wound. ‘Twas plain that there was a deal o’ delicate mystery beneath an’ beyond.

“Answer me fair,” says I, in banter; “wouldn’t a man like me make a fair-t’-middlin’ pa for a lad like you?”

That startled un.

“I’d wager no fish on it, sir,” says he, “afore I learned more o’ your quality.”

“Well, then,” says I, “you’ve but a dull outfit o’ manners.”

He flashed a saucy grin at me. ‘Twas agreeable enough. I deserved it. An’ ’twas made mild with a twinkle o’ humor.

“I’ve pricked your pride, sir,” says he. “I’m sorry.”

“Answer me, then, in a mannerly way,” says I, “Come now! Would I pass muster as a pa for a lad like you?”

He turned solemn an’ earnest.

“You wish you was my pa?” says he.

“‘Tis a sudden question,” says I, “an’ a poser.”

“You doesn’t, then?”

“I didn’t say that,” says I. “What you wishin’ yourself?”

“I isn’t wishin’ nothin’ at all about it,” says he. “All I really wants to know is why you called me your son when I isn’t no such thing.”

“An’ you wants an answer t’ that?”

“I’d be grateful, sir.”

Skipper Harry got the notion from all this talk, mixed with the eager, wistful look o’ the lad, as he searched me with questions, t’ ease the wonder that gripped an’ hurt un, whatever it was–Skipper Harry got the notion that the lad had no father at all that he knowed of, an’ that he sorrowed with shame on that account.

“I wish you was my son,” says he, t’ hearten un. “Danged if I don’t!”

The lad flashed ’round on Skipper Harry an’ stared at un with his eyes poppin’.

“What you say jus’ then?” says he.

“You heared what I said.”

“Say it again, sir, for my pleasure.”

“I will,” says the skipper, “an’ glad to. I says I wish you belonged t’ me.”

“Is you sure about that?”

Skipper Harry couldn’t very well turn back then. Nor was he the man t’ withdraw. An’ he didn’t reef a rag o’ the canvas he had spread in his kindly fervor.

“I is,” says he. “Why?”

“It makes me wonder. What if you was my pa? Eh? What if you jus’ happened t’ be?”

“I’d be glad. That’s what.”

“That’s queer!”

“Nothin’ queer about it.”

“Ah-ha!” says the lad; “’tis wonderful queer!” He cocked his head an’ peered at the skipper like an inquisitive bird. “Nobody never said nothin’ like that t’ me afore,” says he. “What you wish I was your son for? Eh?”

“You is clever an’ good enough, isn’t you?”

“Maybe I is clever. Maybe I’m good, too. I’ll not deny that I’m both. What I wants t’ know, though, is what you wants me for?”

“I’d be proud o’ you.”

“What for?”

Skipper Harry lost patience.

“Don’t pester me no more,” says he. “I’ve no lad o’ my own. That’s reason enough.”

The wee feller looked the skipper over from his shock o’ red hair to his sea-boots, at leisure, an’ turned doleful with pity.

“My duty, sir,” says he. “I’m sore an’ sorry for you.”

“Don’t you trouble about that.”

“You sees, sir,” says the lad, “I can’t help you none. I got a pa o’ my own.”

“That’s good,” says the skipper. “I’m glad o’ that.”

“Moreover, sir,” says the lad, “I’m content with the pa I got. Yes, sir–I’m wonderful proud o’ my pa, an’ I ‘low my pa’s wonderful proud o’ me, if the truth was knowed. I ‘low not many lads on this coast is got such a wonderful pa as I got.”