"Then be a little more careful of what you say." St. John tugged at the ends of his stubby mustache. "I wish I had that boy under my care," he went on.
"S'posin' you had, sah?"
"I'd teach him his place. Why should he be reared as a gentleman—he, a poor waif of the sea? Probably he is the son of some low mechanic, perhaps of a Northern mudsill, and my aunt—think of it, my aunt—must bring him up as a Southern gentleman!" The young man leaped up and began to pace the boathouse floor nervously. "I suppose she'll leave him a large legacy in her will."
"I 'spect you is right, Massah St. John; dat boy will be pervided for, suah as my name's Ben."
"You talk as if you already knew something of this?" said St. John quickly.
"I does know somet'ing, sah."
"Has my aunt ever spoken to you on the subject, Ben?"
"I don't know as I ought to answer dat dar question, Massah St. John."
"Then she has spoken. What did she say?"
The colored man hesitated.