Chapter LXV.
At Home.
Clare followed, wondering, but nowise anxious. He saw nothing to make him anxious. The captain looked a good man, and a good man was a friend to Clare! But when he entered the state-room, and saw himself from head to foot in a mirror let into a bulkhead, he was both startled and ashamed: how could the captain take such a scarecrow into his room! he thought. He did not reflect that it was just the sort of thing he did himself. He had indeed felt dirty and disreputable, and been aware of the dry, rasping tongue of the panther on many patches of bare skin, but he had had no idea what a wretched creature he looked. Not one of the garments he saw in the mirror was his own, and they were disgracefully torn. His hair was sticking out every way, and his face smeared with blood. His feet were bare, and one trouser-leg rent to the knee. His enemies had done their best to ensure prejudice, and frustrate belief. They did not see in his look what no honest man could misread. Innocent as he knew himself, he could not help feeling for a moment disconcerted. But his faithfulness threw him on the mercy of the man before him.
The captain turned and sat down. The boy stood in the doorway, staring at his reflex self in the mirror. The captain understood his consternation.
“Come along, my poor boy,” he said. “How did you get into this mess?”
“I think I know,” answered Clare, “but I’m not sure.”
“You must have been drunk,” sighed the captain.
“Oh, no, sir!” returned Clare, with one of his radiant smiles. “I’ve had but one glass of beer in my life, and I didn’t like it.”
The captain smiled too, and gazed at him for several moments without speaking.
“It seems to me,” he said at last, but as if he were thinking of something quite different, “you must be in want of food.”
“Oh, no, sir!” answered Clare again, “I’m used to going without.”