The boy started.
His name, his pet name that he had not heard for days, on the lips of this block-of-granite little man, who had only spoken so far to snub him.
"Mother does, sir—and Gwen."
There was silence; only the water talking beneath the ship's bows, as she took the open sea and began to swing to it.
"Your father was my friend," continued the voice, less harsh now. "I was a pit-boy; he was a gentleman: we was friends."
The voice was gruff again.
"Ran away to sea same night—he from the Hall; me from the pit-mouth.
Met under the old oak on the green.
"'Ready, Bill?' says he.
"'Right, sir,' says I.
"'Then forge ahead.'