“Yes; pass his place every day going to my boat.”
“Will you ask him to come on board the vessel to-morrow?” asked the captain.
“Yes, sir.”
Early the next morning the basket-maker made his appearance with a large burden of baskets; he had been so engaged manufacturing that it kept him out of the streets—the reason that Walter couldn’t find him.
The captain, taking him into the cabin, said, “My friend, when you was here, a few days ago, you gave me some particulars of your life. This young man, Mr. Griffin, my mate, was not present; but having heard what then passed between us, he has not a doubt but that Charles Bell, who built and is part owner of this vessel, is your oldest son. As for myself, residing in another part of the country, I have no personal knowledge of the circumstances; but I must say that as related by him, they seem to me most probable. But you can hear what he has to say about it, and judge for yourself.”
While the captain was speaking, the basket-maker became very pale, trembled, and big tears rolled down his hollow cheeks.
“For the sake of Heaven, captain,” he exclaimed, “do not raise in this sad heart hopes that may have no foundation. I’ve made up my mind to endure the worst, as God shall give me strength, till I lay these bones in the grave.”
“I am the last person to do that; but I have been turning the subject over in my mind ever since you were here last, and the more I reflect upon the young man’s story, the more the probability of it grows upon me.”
The basket-maker, hearing these words, made a sign to Walter, who gave him substantially the same statement he had made to Ned and the captain. The old man was deeply affected; he evidently saw strong grounds for believing the person described was his child, but was fearful of cherishing a premature hope.
“I can bear what I have borne,” he said, “but the disappointment would drive me mad. You say, young man, that you have known this person intimately?”