"But you said he wasn't honest."
"No, he wasn't, if you must know. He was a burglar, and made his living by taking from the rich what they didn't deserve to have. He was my friend, and he was one of the men who helped me when I lost all I had at the yacht races."
"But—but I don't understand," faltered Nelson. "What was his name?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Is he dead?"
"Yes; he died when you was a little kid not more than three years old. We both lived in another city then—I won't tell you where. Your father was shot while entering a house to rob a man who had once robbed him when he was in business. Your father died in a hospital, and I was with him. Your mother was dead, and he didn't know what to do with you. I said I'd take you, and he made me promise to go to sea first and then to another city and bring you up the best I could. He didn't want you to know your name, and so I got to calling you Nelson after the English admiral, and you can sign yourself Nelson Pepper after this, if you want to."
"Then you won't tell me where I came from?"
"No; excepting that it was a good many miles from here. It wouldn't do any good to rake up old scores. If your father hadn't died of the shot, he would have been sent to prison for ten or fifteen years."
"What was the name of the man who shot him?"