The next instant the boy’s stick fell across his shoulders with a loud whack.
“Clear out, you rascal,” he said. “How dare you speak to a lady! Oh, it’s you, is it--”
In an instant the boy’s arms were around Tim’s neck, and he was hugging him closely.
“Oh, papa, papa!” he was crying, while the woman looked on silently.
In a moment Tim put him aside and stood before his wife. The scene was strange, and, as I stood by, gazing at them, I thought of what the little sailor had told me.
Tim advanced and held out his hand. The woman sprang forward and seized it, pressing it to her lips and falling upon her knees.
“Forgive me,” she said.
But the sailor could not or would not answer. He stood looking down at her a long time.
“Oh, Tim, Tim!” she pleaded, gazing up at him.
I was somewhat disturbed at the scene, for there were people abroad on the streets, and here was a fine, large woman, as good-looking as one would care to see, kneeling before a pitiful-looking sailor, who was as ragged and dirty looking as a forlorn slave. If we were to make good an escape from the barque, it was anything but the proper thing to make a scene in the town streets.