By this time I was myself too much agitated to pay attention to my uncle’s evident fright on the eve of battle. The house was very near now; a few steps further and we were standing upon the little porch.
“You knock, Uncle,” I said, in a whisper.
Uncle Naboth glanced at me reproachfully, and then raised his knuckles. But before they touched the panel of the door he paused, drew out his handkerchief, and again wiped his brow.
I felt that my nerves would bear no further strain. With the desperation of despair or a sudden accession of courage—I never knew which—I rapped loudly upon the door.
A moment’s profound silence was followed by a peculiar sound. Thump, thump, thump! echoed from the room inside, at regular intervals, and then the door was suddenly opened and a man with a wooden leg stood before us. He was clothed in sailor fashion and a bushy beard ornamented his round, frank face.
For an instant we three stood regarding one another in mute wonder. The open door disclosed the long living-room, at the back end of which Mrs. Ranck stood by the kitchen table with a plate in one hand and a towel in the other, motionless as a marble statue and with a look of terror fixed upon her white face.
Singularly enough, I was the first to recover from my surprise.
“Dad!” I cried, in a glad voice, and threw myself joyfully into the sailor man’s arms.
“Why—Cap’n Steele, sir—what does this mean?” faltered Uncle Naboth. “I thought you was dead an’ gone, long ago, an’ safe in Davy Jones’s locker!”