"Yes," said the Skipper, taking up another shell from one of the shelves, a tiger cowry, rich with purple and brown. "The sound of the sea; that is a good thing. Listen here, young gentleman, and tell me what the tiger say to you of the sea."
He held the shell to the boy's ear, and saw the colour and the light come like a wave into his face. They were silent for a moment; then the child spoke, low and dreamily.
"It doesn't say words, you know!" he said. "It's just a soft noise, like what the pine-trees make, but it sounds cool and green and—and wet. And there are waves a long way off, curling over and over, and breaking on white beaches, and they smell good and salt. And it seems to make me know about things down under the sea, and bright colours shining through the water, and light coming 'way down—cool, green light, that doesn't make you wink when you look at it. And—and I guess there are lots of fishes swimming about, and their eyes shine, too, and they move just as soft, and don't make any noise, no more than if their mother was sick in the next room. And on the ground there seem to be like flowers, only they move and open and shut without any one touching them. And—and—"
Was the boy going into a trance? Were the dark eyes mesmerizing him, or was all this to be heard in the shell? The Skipper took the shell gently from his hand, and stroked his hair once or twice, quickly and lightly. "That will do!" he said. "The young gentleman can hear truly. All these things are under the sea, yes, and more, oh, many more! Some day you shall see them, young gentleman; who knows? But now comes Franci to make the dinner. Will Señor Colorado dine with the Skipper from the Bahamas? Welcome he will be, truly."
Little John started, and a guilty flush swept over his clear face.
"I forgot!" he cried. "I forgot all about everything, and Cousin Scraper will be home by this time, and—and—I'll have to be going, please; but I'll come again, if you think I may."
The Skipper had raised his eyebrows at the name of Scraper, and was now looking curiously at the boy. "Who is that you say?" he asked. "Scraper, your cousin? And of your father, young gentleman,—why do you not speak of him?"
"My father is dead," replied little John. "And my mother too, a good while ago. I don't remember father. Mother——" he broke off, and dropped his eyes to hide the tears that sprang to them. "Mother died a year ago," he said; "ever since then I've lived with Cousin Scraper. He's some sort of kin to father, and he says he's my guardian by law."
"His other name?" suggested the dark man, quietly. "For example, Endymion?"
"Why, yes!" cried John, raising his honest blue eyes in wonder. "Do you know him, sir? Have you ever been here before?"