“I—I—” faltered the old man.
“Thought only of my safety,” said the Captain. “Here, stop! Phil! Where are you going?”
But the boy dashed through the open door, which swung to behind him.
“Call him back,” cried the Captain, excitedly. “I must say good-bye, for we may never meet again. Stop; I am weak enough without that. I ought not to have come. Martin, old friend, remember. I trust you, and if fate makes him an orphan—”
“You have known me all these years, Carleton, and I have grown to love him as if he was my own. Trust me still, and—”
There was a quick footstep, the door was kicked open, and Phil rushed in, panting and flushed, with a large loaf under one arm and a basket in his hand, out of which the crisp brown legs of a roast chicken were sticking.
“Here, father!” he cried.
“Bravo! Good forager,” cried the Captain, snatching the provisions from the boy to throw on the table before clasping Phil to his breast in one quick, tight embrace.
The next minute he had thrust the little fellow into the Doctor’s arms.