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When Skipper Harry come below again, he clapped a hand on Anthony Lot’s shoulder in a way that jarred the man.

“Time you was stowed away in bed,” says he.

Anthony took the hint. “I was jus’ ‘lowin’ t’ go ashore,” says he. “You comin’ along, Sammy?”

“I don’t know,” says Sammy. “I isn’t quite tired of it here as yet.”

“Well, now, I calls that complimentary!” says the skipper; “an’ I’m inclined to indulge you. What say, Tumm? Mm-m? What say t’ this here young gentleman?”

“I’m fond o’ company,” says I, “if ’tis genteel.”

“Come, now, be candid!” says the skipper. “Is you suited with the company you is offered?”

“‘Tis genteel enough for me.”

“Aw, you is jus’ pokin’ fun at me,” says the lad. “I don’t like it.”

“I is not neither!” says I.

“I–I wish I could stay, sir,” says Sammy t’ the skipper. “Jus’, sir–jus’ for a little small while. I–I—-“

‘Twas a plea. Skipper Harry cocked his ear in wonder. It seemed t’ me that the lad had a purpose in mind.

“Well?” says the skipper.

The lad begun t’ pant with a question, an’ then, in a fright, t’ lick his lips.

“Well, sir,” says he, “I wants t’ ask–I–I jus’ got the notion t’—-“

“Anthony,” says the skipper, “your punt is frayin’ the painter with eagerness t’ be off t’ bed.”

With that Anthony went ashore.

“Now, son,” says the skipper, “they’re havin’ a wonderful mug-up in the forecastle. You go for’ard an’ have a cup o’ tea. ‘Tis a cup o’ tea that you wants, not the company o’ me an’ Mister Tumm, an’ I knows it. You have a little scoff with the men, my son, an’ then one o’ the lads will put you ashore. You might come back for breakfast, too, an you is hungry again by that time.”

“I’d as lief stay here,” says Sammy.

“Oh, no,” says the skipper; “you go for’ard an’ have a nice cup o’ tea with a whole lot o’ white sugar in it.”

“I’d like that.”

“Sure, you would!”

“Is I t’ have as much sugar as I wants?”

“You is, my son.”

“May I tell the cook, sir, that ’tis by your leave an’ orders?”

“Ay, my son.”

The lad made t’ go, with a duck of his head t’ the skipper; but then he stopped an’ faced about.

“Goin’ t’ turn in?” says he.

“No, son.”

“By your leave, then,” says the lad, “I’ll be back t’ bid you good night an’ thank you afore I goes ashore.”

“That’s polite, my son. Pray do.”

By this time the lad was skippin’ up t’ the deck an’ Hard Harry was scowlin’ with the trouble o’ some anxious thought.

“Son!” says the skipper.

The lad turned.

“Sir?”

“An I was you,” says Skipper Harry, “I wouldn’t tell the lads up for’ard what my name was.”

“You wouldn’t?”

The skipper shook his head.

“Not me,” says he.

“That’s queer.”

“Anyhow, I wouldn’t.”

“Why not, sir?”

“Oh, well, nothin’ much,” says the skipper. “You don’t have to, do you? I ‘low I jus’ wouldn’t do it. That’s all.”

The lad jumped into the cabin an’ shook his wee fist in the skipper’s face. “No, I don’t have to,” says he in a fury; “but I wants to, an’ I will if I wants to! I’m not ashamed o’ the name I wear!” An’ he leaped up the ladder; an’ when he had reached the deck, he turned an’ thrust his head back, an’ he called down t’ the skipper, “Forgive my fault, sir!” An’ then we heared his feet patter on the deck as he run for’ard.

* * * * *

Well, well, well, now, ’tis a sentimental tale, truly! I fears ’twill displease the majority–this long yarn o’ the little mystery o’ Hide-an’-Seek Harbor. ‘Tis a remarkable thing, I grant, t’ thrust a wee lad like Sammy Scull so deep into the notice o’ folk o’ parts an’ prominence; an’ it may be, though I doubt it, that little codgers like he, snarled up in the coil o’ their small lives, win no favor with the wealthy an’ learned. I’ve told the tale more than once, never t’ folk o’ consequence, as now, occupied with affairs o’ great gravity, with no time t’ waste in the company o’ far-away little shavers–I’ve never told the tale t’ such folk at all, but only to the lowly of our coast, with the forecastle bogie warm of a windy night, an’ the schooner hangin’ on in the rain off the cliffs, or with us all settled afore a kitchen fire in a cottage ashore, of a winter’s night, which is the most favorable hour, I’ve found out, for the tellin’ o’ tales like mine; an’ the folk for whose pleasure I’ve spun this yarn have thought the fate o’ wee Sammy worth their notice an’ sighs, an’ have thrilled me with wonder an’ praise. I’m well warned that gentlefolk t’ the s’uth’ard must have love in their tales an’ be charmed with great deeds in its satisfaction; but I’m a skillful teller o’ tales, as I’ve been told in high quarters, an’ as I’ve good reason t’ believe, indeed, with my own common sense and discretion t’ clap me on the back, an’ so I’ll speed on with my sentimental tale to its endin’, whether happy or not, an’ jus’ damn the scoffers in private.