“My God! Tom Granger; is it—is it you? They said you were dead! I—I—” Then he stopped, and Tom felt his hands trembling as they lay on his shoulders.
“Dead!” said Tom, after a moment of silence.
“Yes, Tom; dead.”
“But I’m not dead,” said Tom, smiling, and trying to shake off the feeling that was creeping over him.
“Don’t! Don’t talk that way, Tom,” said Will; “don’t make so light of it. Your father had a letter from Lovejoy & Co., of Philadelphia. It was nearly a year ago, now; the letter said that your ship had been lost, no one knew how or where. Tom,”—here he stopped abruptly—“Come into the tavern, Tom,” said he.
As they went up the tavern steps and entered the door, the loungers stared at them with wide-opened eyes. They did not recognize him, but a stranger was an object of interest in the town in those days. Will hurried him into the house, and Mrs. Bond showed them into the parlor. There was something so odd in Will’s manner, that the feeling of fear grew heavier and heavier on Tom’s spirit—the first words that he spoke, were:
“Will, how’s Patty?”
Will did not answer immediately, and Tom, glancing quickly up, saw that he was looking earnestly at him.
There was a moment of dead silence, through which sounded the clicking of the dishes being washed in the out kitchen of the tavern.
“Will, how’s Patty?” said Tom, again, and he himself noticed what a sharp ring there was in his voice. “Why don’t you speak? What’s the matter? How’s Patty?”