"Isn't nobody there," says Anthony Lot.
"I heared a step," says I.
"Me, too," says Skipper Harry.
"Nothin' o' no consequence," says Anthony. "I wouldn't pay no attention t' that."
"Somebody up there in the rain," says the skipper.
"Oh, I knows who 'tis," says Anthony. "'Tisn't nobody that amounts t' nothin' very much."
"Ah, well," says I, "we'll have un down here out o' the dark jus' the same."
"On deck there!" says the skipper again. "You is welcome below, sir!"
Down come a lad in response t' Hard Harry's hail—jus' a pallid, freckled little bay-noddie, with a tow head an' blue eyes, risin' ten years, or thereabouts, mostly skin, bones an' curiosity, such as you may find in shoals in every harbor o' the coast. He was blinded by the cabin lamp, an' brushed the light out of his eyes; an' he was abashed—less shy than cautious, however, mark you; an' I mind that he shuffled and grinned, none too sure of his welcome—halted, doubtful an' beseechin', like a dog on a clean kitchen floor. I marked in a sidelong glance, too, when I begun t' toot again, that his wee face was all in a pucker o' bewilderment, as he listened t' the sad strains o' Toby Farr's music, jus' as though he knowed he wasn't able t' rede the riddles of his life, jus' yet awhile, but would be able t' rede them, by an' by, when he growed up, an' expected t' find hisself in a pother o' trouble when he mastered the answers. I didn't know his name, then, t' be sure; had I knowed it, as know it I did, afore the night was over, I might have put down my flute, in amazement, an' stared an' said, "Well, well, well!" jus' as everybody did, no doubt, when they clapped eyes on that lad for the first time an' was told whose son he was.
"What's that wee thing you're blowin'?" says he.