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“I’ll leave you to brood on it,” says I, “whilst I plays my flute.”

Skipper Harry brooded whilst I tooted Toby Farr’s woeful song called The Last Man o’ the Fore-an’-After :

When the schooner struck the rock,
She was splintered by the shock;
An’ the breakers didn’t ask for leave or token.
No! They hove un, man an’ kid,
Slap ag’in the cliff, they did,
An’ kep’ heavin’ ’til the bones of all was broken!

“Skipper Harry,” says I, then, puttin’ aside my ol’ flute, “doesn’t you know what you can do t’ help that lad out o’ trouble for good an ‘all?”

“I wish I did, Tumm.”

“Is you as stupid as all that?”

“I isn’t stupid as a usual thing,” says he. “My wits is all scattered with rage an’ sadness. That’s the only trouble.”

“Well,” says I, “all you got t’ do—-“

Skipper Harry warned me.

“Hist!”

The lad was half way down the companion. I mind, as a man will recall, sometimes, harkin’ back t’ the crest an’ close of a livin’ tale like this poor yarn o’ the little mystery o’ Hide-an’-Seek Harbor, that there was wind in the riggin’ an’ black rain on the roof o ‘the cabin. An’ when I thinks of it all, as think of it I does, meanderin’ along with my friendly ol’ flute, of an evenin’ in the fall o’ the year, when trade’s done an’ the shelves is all put t’ rights, I hears that undertone o’ patter an’ splash an’ sigh. There was that in the lad’s face t’ stir an ache in the heart of a sentimental ol’ codger like me; an’ when I seed the grim lines an’ gray color of it, an’ when I caught the sorrow an’ pride it uttered, as the lad halted, in doubt, peerin’ at Skipper Harry in the hope of a welcome below, I knowed that my surmise was true. ‘Twas a vision I had, I fancy–a flash o’ revelation, such as may come, as some part o’ the fortune they inherit, to habitual tellers o’ tales o’ the old an’ young like me. A wee lad, true–Hide-an’-Seek born, an’ fated the worst; yet I apprehended, all at once, the confusion he dwelt alone in, an’ felt the weight o’ the burden he carried alone; an’ I must honor the courage an’ good pride of his quality. Ay, I knows he was young! I knows that well enough! Nay, my sirs an’ gentlefolk–I’m not makin’ too much of it!

“Ah-ha!” says the skipper. “Here you is, eh? Come below, sir, an’ feel welcome aboard.”

Well, the lad come down with slow feet; an’ then he stood before Skipper Harry like a culprit.

“Is you had your cup o’ tea?” says the skipper.

“Yes, sir. I thanks you, sir, for my cup o’ tea.”

“Sugar in it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All you wanted?”

“As much as my need, sir, an’ more than my deserts.”

Skipper Harry clapped un on the back.

“All nonsense!” says he. “You’re no judge o’ your deserts. They’re a good round measure, I’ll be bound!”

“They isn’t, sir.”

“No more o’ that! You is jus’ as worthy—-“

“No, I isn’t!”

“Well, then, have it your own way,” says the skipper. “Is you comin’ back for breakfast in the mornin’? That’s what I wants t’ know.”

“No, sir.”

Skipper Harry jumped.

“What’s that?” says he. “Why not?”

“I’ve shamed your goodness, sir.”

“Bosh!” says the skipper.

The lad’s lips was dry. He licked ’em. An’ his throat was dry. He gulped. An’ his voice was hoarse.

“I been lyin’ t’ you,” says he.

“You been—-“

All at once the lad’s voice went shrill as a maid’s. ‘Twas distressful t’ hear.

“Lyin’ t’ you, sir!” says he. “I been lyin’ t’ you jus’ like mad! An’ now you’ll not forgive me!”

“Tumm,” says the skipper, “this is a very queer thing. I can’t make it out.”

I could.

“No harm in easin’ the conscience freely,” says I t’ the lad. “What you been lyin’ about?”