It was not General Washington who spoke. It was the Skipper, and he was leaning on the gate and looking at the boy John and smiling. "You make a busy day," he repeated. "I think there are soon no more weeds in Sir Scraper's garden."
"Oh, yes!" cried John, straightening himself again, and leaning on his trusty hoe. "There'll be just as many—I beg your pardon! Good morning! I hope you are well; it is a very fine day. There'll be just as many of them to-morrow, or next day, certainly. I make believe they are the British, you see, and I've been fighting all the morning, and I do think they are pretty well licked by this time; but they don't stay licked, the British don't. I like them for that, don't you? Even though it is a bother to go on fighting all the days of one's life."
"I also have noticed that of the British!" the Skipper said, nodding gravely. "But now you can rest a little, Juan Colorado? Sir Scraper is at home, that you call him for me, say I desire to make him the visit?"
"No, he isn't at home," said John. "He's gone down to the store for his mail. But please come in and wait, and he'll be back soon. Do come in! It—it's cool to rest, after walking in the sun."
It was the only inducement the child could think of, but he offered it with right good-will. The Skipper assented with a smile and a nod, and the two passed into the house together.
In the kitchen, which was the living-room of the house, John halted, and brought a chair for his visitor, and prepared to play the host as well as he could; but the visitor seemed, for some reason, not to fancy the kitchen. He looked around with keen, searching eyes, scanning every nook and corner in the bare little room. Truly, there was not much to see. The old fireplace had been blocked up, and in its place was the usual iron cooking-stove, with a meagre array of pots and pans hanging behind it. The floor was bare; the furniture, a table and chair, with a stool for John. There was no provision for guests; but that did not matter, as Mr. Scraper never had guests. Altogether, there was little attraction in the kitchen, and the Skipper seemed curiously displeased with its aspect.
"There is no other room?" he asked, after completing his survey. "No better room than this, Colorado? Surely, there must be one other; yes, of course!" he added, as if struck by a sudden thought. "His shells? Mr. Scraper has shells. They are—where?"
He paused and looked sharply at the boy. Little John coloured high. "The—the shells?" he stammered. "Yes, of course, sir, the shells are in another room, in the parlour; but—but—I am not let go in there, unless Mr. Scraper sends me."
"So!" said the dark man; "but for me, Colorado, how is it for me? Mr. Scraper never said to me that I must not go in this parlour, you see. For you it is well, you do as you are told; you are a boy that makes himself to trust; for me, I am a Skipper from the Bahamas, I do some things that are strange to you,—among them, this. I go into the parlour."
He nodded lightly, and leaving the child open-mouthed in amazement, opened the sacred door, the door of the best parlour, and went in, as unconcernedly as if it were his own cabin. John, standing at the door,—he surely might go as far as the door, if he did not step over the threshold,—watched him, and his eyes grew wider and wider, and his breath came quicker and quicker.