"I—I did not go for to blow up the ship, sir," Miles pleaded, raising his eyes. With amazed relief, he saw that, for all his gruff tone, the Captain looked more amused than angry.
Standish must have taken closer note of him, too, for he asked abruptly: "You're John Rigdale's lad, are you not?"
"I am Miles Rigdale."
The lantern was lowered suddenly. "My namesake, are you? Do you not think, sirrah, you bear too good a name to drag it into a powder-burning matter such as this?"
"I do not hold it a good name," Miles burst out. "I would they had called me plain Jack."
"Wherefore, pray you?"
"Miles is no name at all," the boy hesitated, between shyness and the desire to vent a long-standing resentment. "It makes me think of the stone in our village that said: 'Thirteen miles to London.'"
"Tut, tut, lad! Have you no Latin?"
Miles slipped one hand under the edge of the table against which he leaned, and picked at a splinter he found there, while he stammered: "N—no, sir. There was no school in our village, and, had there been, my father could not spare me from the farm. I must help him, for I'm mighty strong for my years," he added gravely. "And I never want to go sit in a school, either. I am glad there will be no schools here in the plantation, not till I'm a man and can do as I will. I hold that is the best part of all in planting a colony, except the lions and the savages."
"And what do you think to do with the lions and savages, Miles Rigdale?"