“Yes. I know all about all of it. Do set down!”
Stephen struck his closed fist into the palm of his other hand. He wore one glove. What had become of the other he could not have told.
“You do?” he shouted. “You do? By gad! Then do you know what it means?”
“Yes, I know that, too. Now, Stevie, be a good boy and set down and keep cool. Yes, I want you to.”
He put his hands on his nephew’s shoulders and forced him into a chair.
“Now, just calm yourself,” urged the captain. “There ain’t a mite of use workin’ yourself up this way. I know the whole business, and I can’t tell you—I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I feel for you. Yet you mustn’t give up the ship because—”
“Mustn’t give up!” Stephen was on his feet again. “Why, what are you talking about? I thought you said you knew! Do you think that losing every cent you’ve got in the world is a joke? Do you think that—See here, do you know who this shareholder is; this fellow who’s going to rob us of all we own? Who is he?”
“Didn’t Mr. Sylvester tell you?”
“He said that there was such a man and that he had the estate cinched. He told us about that note and all the rest. But he wouldn’t tell the man’s name. Said he had been forbidden to mention it. Do you know him? What sort of fellow is he? Don’t you think he could be reasoned with? Hasn’t he got any decency—or pity—or—”
He choked, and the tears rushed to his eyes. He wiped them angrily away with the back of his glove.