"I saw that," said Brand, knowing the agony which prompted the broken explanation.
"An' not a mother's soul would have escaped if it wasn't for young Mr. Pyne," went on the sailor.
"Is that the name of the youngster who climbed the fore-mast?"
"That's him. It was a stroke of genius, his catching onto that way out. He was as cool as a cucumber. Just looked up when he reached the deck an' saw the lighthouse so near. Then he asked me for a rope. Planned the whole thing in a second, so to speak."
"He is not one of the ship's company?"
"No, sir, a passenger, nevvy of Cyrus J. Traill, the Philadelphian millionaire. Haven't you heard of Traill? Not much of a newspaper reader, eh? There was a lady on board, a Mrs. Vansittart, who was coming over to marry old Traill, so people said, and the weddin' was fixed to take place in Paris next week. Young Pyne was actin' as escort."
"Is she lost? What a terrible thing!"
The chief officer glanced down the purser's lists and slapped his thigh with much vehemence.
"No, by gosh! Here she is, marked O. K. Well, that beats the band."
"So the lad has discharged his trust to his uncle?"