"After all," I said to Gran'pa, "there's some excuse—at his age."
"Nonsense! The man's at least fifteen to twenty years younger than I am. Either he's beginning to feel sea-sick, or else he's funking the whole thing. Whatever it is, we can't have him demoralizing the rest of the old boys by such insane antics. Some of them were scared to death. An ill-balanced man like that aboard is a constant menace to the peace. He ought to have brought his nurse. . . . I must get Stringer to have a quiet little chat with him."
So we put him into Stringer's capable hands—with the astounding result that next day the old man came and apologized to Gran'pa.
"I . . . er . . . suddenly became very homesick. . . ." he explained, sheepishly.
"I thought you were just . . . sea-sick," snapped Gran'pa. "However, you're all right now?"
"Quite, thank you! I ask your pardon, Mr. Hadley."
Gran'pa's features relaxed and he extended a hand of brotherly forgiveness.
"Not another word, laddie!" he beamed. "I should have felt just the same at your age. . . ."
It sounded like a father talking to a son—but it looked exactly the opposite.
When the old man had gone, Gran'pa winked at me and said: