“Tell me,” he said at length, “what you remember.”
He meant—of the circumstances that immediately preceded his coming to himself on board the Panther; but Clare began with the first thing his memory presented him with. Perhaps he was yet a little dazed. He had not got through a single sentence, when he saw that something earlier wanted telling first; and the same thing happening again and again within the first five minutes of his narration, sir Harry saw he had before him a boy either of fertile imagination, or of “strange, eventful history.” But either supposition had its difficulty. If, on the one hand, he had had the tenth part of the experiences hinted at; if, for one thing, he had been but a single month on the tramp, how had he kept such an innocent face, such an angelic smile? If, on the other hand, he was making up these tales, why did he not look sharper? and whence the angelic smile? Did the seeming innocence indicate only such a lack of intellect as occasionally accompanies a remarkable individual gift? He must make him begin at the beginning, and tell everything he knew, or might pretend to know about himself!
“Stop,” he said. “You told me you did not quite know your name: what did they call you as far back as you can remember?”
“Clare Porson,” answered the boy.
At the first word the captain gave a little cry, but repressed his emotion, and went on. His face was very white, and his breath came and went quickly.
“Why did you say you did not quite know your name?”
“My father and mother called me by their name because there was nobody to tell them what my real name was.”
“Then they weren’t your own father and mother that gave you the name?”
“No, sir. I’m but using theirs till I get my own. I shall one day.”
“Why do you think so?”