CHAPTER XLVIII.
THOMAS AND HIS FATHER.
When he was shown into his father's room he was writing a letter. Looking up and seeing Tom he gave a grin—that is, a laugh without the smile in it—handed him a few of his fingers, pointed to a chair, and went on with his letter. This reception irritated Tom, and perhaps so far did him good that it took off the edge of his sheepishness—or rather, I should have said, put an edge upon it. Before his father he did not feel that he appeared exactly as a culprit. He had told him either to give up Lucy, or not to show his face at home again. He had lost Lucy, it might be—though hope had revived greatly since his interview with Mr. Stopper; but, in any case, even if she refused to see him, he would not give her up. So he sat, more composed than he had expected to be, waiting for what should follow. In a few minutes his father looked up again, as he methodically folded his letter, and casting a sneering glance at his son's garb, said:
"What's the meaning of this masquerading, Tom?"
"It means that I am dressed like my work," answered Tom, surprised at his own coolness, now that the ice was broken.
"What's your work, then, pray?"
"I'm a sailor."
"You a sailor! A horse-marine, I suppose! Ha, ha!"
"I've made five coasting voyages since you turned me out," said Tom.