The tears were in old Solly’s eyes, and there seemed to be a kink in his throat, as he said huskily:
“Awful, sir. I was a-saying on’y the other day, when the skipper was wherriting hisself about losing a few salmon, and raging and blowing all over the place, that he wanted a real trouble to upset him, and that then he wouldn’t go so half-mad-like about a pack o’ poachers working the pool. But I little thought then that the real bad trouble was coming so soon; and it has altered him, sewer-ly. Poor Master Nic—poor dear lad! Seems on’y t’other day as I used to carry him sittin’ with his little bare legs over my two shoulders, and him holding on tight by my curly hair. Yes, sir, you look; it is smooth and shiny up aloft now, but I had a lot o’ short, curly hair then, just like an old Calabar nigger’s. And now, on’y to think of it.”
“No, don’t think of it, my lad, for we are not certain, and we will not give up hope. There, good-bye, Solly, my man. Shake hands.”
“Shake—hands, sir—with you, cap’n?”
“No, not with the captain, but with the man who looks upon you as an old friend.”
The next minute Solly was alone, rubbing his fist first in one eye and then in the other, twisting the big bony knuckle of his forefinger round so as to squeeze the moisture out.
“Well now,” he said, “just look at that! What an old fool I am! Well, if I didn’t know as them there drops o’ mystur’ was ’cause o’ my poor lad Master Nic, I should ha’ thought it was all on account o’ what Cap’n Lawrence said. ‘Friend!’ he says. Well, I like that. I s’pose it’s ’cause I’ve allus tried to do my dooty, though I’ve made a horful muddle on it more’n once.”