"A man of the—of the name of Zuker?" stammered Hibbert.
"Yes."
"Tell me—do tell me—all about it?" pleaded the boy, clutching Paul suddenly by the arm.
"Oh, it's a sad tale, and it won't interest you."
"Indeed it will—very, very much. Anything that has to do with you interests me. Tell me."
Without intending to compliment Paul, the boy had paid him the most delicate compliment he could have done. Besides, Paul was now very much alone, and in his loneliness it was nice to have some one to speak to; so he told his eager listener the tragic circumstances that had cost his father his life. Hibbert scarcely spoke or moved all the time Paul was telling the story. He hung upon every word.
"How noble of your father to jump overboard and save the man—the man Zuker," said the lad, when Paul had finished. "There's not many who would have risked their life to save an enemy. I think you said Zuker was an enemy."
"Well, I don't know about an enemy. He seems to have been a wretched, contemptible spy; but what's wrong with you?" he suddenly exclaimed, as his eyes went to the boy's face. It was of an ashen pallor, and he was trembling in every limb.
"Nothing wrong, except—except that I can't help thinking what a lot you and your mother must have suffered after your father's death."
"I didn't suffer much, because I was too young to remember him. I was only a little more than a year old when it all happened. Still, I should so like to have known my father. They say he was very brave, and kind, and true, and one of the best captains in the Navy; and when sometimes I think of him, and what he might have been to me, I feel very bitter against the man for whom he gave his life. Then I battle against the feeling, and a better takes its place. I think to myself—What nobler death could a man die than in trying to save the life of one who had done him wrong."