O, I served my time on the Black Ball Line,
Hurrah for the Black Ball Line!
From the South Sea north to the sixty-nine,
Hurrah for the Black Ball Line!
And somehow with that I cried at last.
The ship passed in, the bridge shut, and the foul old cab rattled till it stopped before the well-remembered door. The house had been closed since my mother was buried, Grandfather Nat paying the rent and keeping the key on my father's behalf; and now the door opened with a protesting creak and a shudder, and the air within was close and musty.
There were two letters on the mat, where they had fallen from the letter-flap, and both were from my father, as was plain from the writing. We carried them into the little parlour, where last we had sat with the funeral party, and my grandfather lifted the blind and flung open the window. Then he sat and put one letter on each knee.
"Stevy," he said, and again his voice was like a groan; "look at them postmarks. Ain't one Belize?"
Yes, one was Belize, the other La Guaira; and both for my mother.
"Ah, one's been lyin' here; the other must ha' come yesterday, by the same mail as brought the news." He took the two letters again, turned them over and over, and shook his head. Then he replaced them on his knees and rested his fists on his thighs, just above where they lay.
"I don't know as we ought to open 'em, Stevy," he said wearily. "I dunno, Stevy, I dunno."
He turned each over once more, and shut his fists again. "I dunno, I dunno.... Man an' wife, between 'emselves.... Wouldn't do it, living.... Stevy boy, we'll take 'em home an' burn 'em."
But to me the suggestion seemed incomprehensible—even shocking. I could see no reason for burning my father's last message home. "Perhaps there's a little letter for me, Gran'father Nat," I said. "He used to put one in sometimes. Can't we look? And mother used to read me her letters too."