“I never knew there was such a man, and wish he’d kept his letters to himself.”
“Was your mother sick long before she died?”
“Only two weeks, sir.”
“And didn’t she mention the name of Andrew Foster—never speak of your Uncle Andrew?”
“I don’t think so, sir; I am sure she never said very much about him, and I can’t remember ever having heard his name.”
“Not a very affectionate letter, eh, Downey?” and Mr. Bradford held out the missive as if thinking the keeper might like to see it again before replying.
“That’s the way it struck all hands of us, and is one thing which has caused us to think perhaps it would be as well for Benny to stay here.”
“You want to keep him?”
“Yes, Mr. Bradford; we would like to have him and Fluff stay, if it so be the lad wouldn’t be injurin’ his prospects in life. We’ve come to look upon him as belongin’ to us in a sort of way. Perhaps you can’t understand it; but we who live here alone, tied down to the station day and night, get kind of peculiar, I reckon. You see, we’re mostly by ourselves all winter, and run into whims an’ fancies more than other men. The sea brought the boy to us, so to speak, and, even though he’s where he can hear it, I must say a better lad never lived—leastways, so far as my experience goes. Here’s the whole hitch: we can’t hope to make more than a surfman out of him, and it may be the good Lord has fitted him for something better, though he couldn’t follow a more honest callin’. Now if this uncle of his would send him to college, and start him out into the world as many a boy is started, we’d put aside our own feelin’s, knowin’ No. 8 was to be benefited; but if he’s goin’ ’way up there in the middle of York State to do the drudgery of a farm, or some such kind of work, why, then, unless it’s contrary to law, we’d hold him here in spite of his uncle.”
“Have you answered this letter?”