“You sit down here on the deck beside me, tell me your name, and all about you,” she said. “For although I saw you so long ago, I never learned who you were.”
I looked up at Mr. Gates and the Captain and slyly tapped my forehead. I believed she was lightheaded. The old man nodded and said, gruffly enough, for he was deeply moved:
“You stay with her, Clint. Do jest what she wants ye to.”
“Clint?” she repeated, questioningly. “Is that your name?”
“Clinton Webb,” I replied.
“Clinton is pretty. You are English?”
“I should say not!” I exclaimed. “American.”
“Oh, yes! I am an English girl; but I have lived in British India most all my life.”
“That’s it, Miss,” I said, knowing that the captain and mate were dying to hear her story. “You tell us all about it. How did you come in that boat? And what vessel was it that was wrecked?”
“We sailed in the Galland, a big steamship, from Calcutta,” said the girl softly. “I was with friends. They were taking me home—‘home’ means England to all British India people who are white.”