“Mr. David—dear, dear Mr. David—I can’t open the door! He’s taken the key.” I heard then.
“Who has taken the key, Joey?”
“The big man. He locked me in. Mr. David—can’t you get me out?”
I placed my shoulder against the door. With all my strength I gave heave after heave until the rotten old boards gave way. They splintered into fragments, and through the jagged opening crept Joey, my lad—to throw himself into my arms and cling and cling about my neck, biting his lips to keep the tears from falling. But my tears wet the boyish head I pressed against my breast. I sank to my knees and gathered him into my arms, and rocked back and forth, crooning over him, womanishly:
“Joey—Joey! Little lad—dear little lad!”
Soon after I lay in the bunk in the interior of the one-room shack and Joey cooked a substantial meal for me; and when it was ready, I ate ravenously while he hung over me, his hand stealing up to close about my hand from time to time.
When I had finished I dropped back into the bunk. “Now then, lad,” I said.
And Joey began his tale by asking: “Mr. David, am I the big man’s boy?”
“What do you mean, Joey?”
“He says I’m his boy. He says I was lost in a shipwreck—when I was a teenty baby.”