Miss Medea brought the cake and wine. As soon as I had despatched them, which did not take very long, she commenced her pumping, as I had anticipated, and which I was determined to thwart, merely out of opposition.
“You were sorry to leave your mamma, weren’t you, Master Keene?”
“Yes; very sorry, miss.”
“Where’s your papa, dearest? He’s a very pretty boy, mamma, ain’t he?” continued the young lady, putting her fingers through my chestnut curls.
“Yes; handsome boy,” croaked the old lady.
“Papa’s dead.”
“Dead! I thought so,” observed Miss Medea, winking at her mother.
“Did you ever see your papa, dearest?”
“Oh yes; he went to sea about eighteen months ago, and he was killed in action.”
After this came on a series of questions and cross-questions; I replied to her so as to make it appear that Ben was my father, and nobody else, although I had then a very different opinion. The fact was, I was determined that I would not be pumped, and I puzzled them, for I stated that my aunt Milly was married to Captain Bridgeman, of the marines; and not till then did Miss Medea ask me what my father was. My reply was that he had also been in the marines, and they consequently put him down as a marine officer, as well as Captain Bridgeman.