Old Swain covered his face with his hands and sank into a seat, and then Lieutenant Fenton walked over to him and placed a kindly hand on his shoulder. Then he withdrew it quickly.
“I have a hard duty, Swain, and the sooner it is over the better. I am ordered to arrest your son, James Swain, for the crime of murder and for deserting from his ship. He will be taken to San Francisco. Whatever you wish to say to him, do so now. In another ten minutes we must be on our way to the ship, and there will be no further opportunity for you to see him.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said the old man, huskily, and rising he walked slowly over to his manacled son, and put his trembling hand on his arm.
“You will excuse me, sir, if I talk to him in the native lingo.”
Fenton nodded, motioned to the seamen who stood beside the prisoner to move away, and then walked to the further end of the room.
“Jim,” said the old trader, quickly, speaking in the native language, “what's to be done? I have only got to send a native along the beach with the shell{*} and we shall have you away from these people in no time.”
{*} The conch shell.
“No, no, father, even if every one of them was killed it would do no good. An' they would never let me be taken away from them alive. It is no use, father, to try that. But”—and here he bent his head forward—“if I could free my hands I would make a dash—and be shot. I swear I shall never be hanged. Father, where is Em? I would like to see her before I go.”
“She runned away, boy,” said the old man, brokenly, and speaking in English; “runned away, jes' as soon as she heerd the firin'. She went to look for you, Jim. Heaven help the gal, Jim, when she comes back an' finds you gone.”
For a little while longer they talked, and then Lieutenant Fenton came toward them, and Adams, at a sign from his superior, took the old trader by the arm, and with rough kindness forced him away from his son.