"Of course I didn't," responded David, "with his boy adrift and his heart broken clean in two. It was a silly notion of yours to begin with."
"Well, you needn't bite my head off," growled Mr. Becket, as they shouldered their way into the tiny living room. Margaret called blithely from the birdcage of a kitchen.
"Do keep Mr. Becket away from here, Davy. Every time he turns around or takes a long breath, he breaks a dish or upsets something. He ought to live out-doors."
Captain John was beaming a welcome as he hauled David by the collar to a seat on the sofa beside him, and declared:
"You'd be a mate next year if you had chosen sail instead of steam, you strapping big lump of a lad. You are the kind of Yankee sailor they used to breed in my early days at sea. How many years more do you serve in your old machine shop before you get your papers?"
"Three or four," cheerfully replied David. "And even then I won't be fit to be left in charge of the ship for a minute. A fourth officer is mighty small potatoes in my trade."
"I was master of a deep-water ship when I was twenty-one," said Captain John. "Ah, those days are gone. Tell us all about this boy that was lost with the yacht."
"He isn't lost," stoutly returned David. "With good weather they will be picked up. I'm sure of it."
"The sea is very cruel, Davy," murmured the skipper, and his face clouded with sad memories of his boy lost with Margaret's mother. The "little girl" peered anxiously from the kitchen door and tried to shift the topic to happier themes: