“Well, it’s not much and will not take long, and then it will be done,” said Juan, slowly. “It is this: My mother and I were starving, and I tried to earn some bread for her and could not, and so I stole it. That is all.”
“I should have done the same,” said Diego.
“Stealing is stealing,” said Juan, and Diego thought of the melon; “and, after all,” he said, a little huskily, “it did no good.”
“What do you mean?” asked Diego.
“My mother died with the bread on her lips.”
Diego had nothing to say to that, but he showed his sympathy by suddenly taking Juan’s hand and shaking it, letting it go as quickly as he had taken it.
“The only thing,” said Juan, after a moment’s pause, “that I was glad of was that she never knew I was taken to prison.”
“I would not think it a disgrace,” said Diego.
“But it was,” said Juan; “and if I had not come aboard here and met you and quarrelled with you, I should have become as bad as the worst. I had only thieves, and even murderers, for friends, and could have had no other sort as long as I lived if I had not come on this voyage. I should have been glad I came the voyage even if we had not discovered Zipangu; though I would have done anything to desert at first. And now you may whip me as much as you can, if you will only remain my friend.”
“I will, of course—glad to be; but you mustn’t let me whip you, or I shan’t like you,” said Diego.