“Yes,” I said, “ever so much; and you must keep it so.”
“Oh, yes,” he said seriously; “I will now. It was no good before.”
“What’s your name?” I said.
He showed his white teeth.
“Name? They always called me Boy on board,” he replied.
“Yes, but you’ve got a name like anyone else,” I said.
“Oh, yes, sir,” he replied, wrinkling up his forehead as if thinking deeply; “I’ve got a name somewheres, but I’ve never seemed to want it. Got most knocked out of me. It’s Peter, I know; but—I say, Bill Cross,” he cried sharply, “what’s my name?”
The carpenter smiled grimly, and gave me a sharp look as much as to say, “Wait a minute and you shall see me draw him out.”
“Name, my lad,” he said. “Here, I say, you haven’t gone and knocked your direction off your knowledge box, have you?”
“I dunno,” said the boy, staring. “I can’t ’member it.”