“He went to New York with us. There he stepped ashore and I ain’t never seen him since—and only heard of him once, an’ that was ten years or so afterward——”
“Hullo!” I cried, suddenly waking up. “When did all this happen, Tom?”
“When did what happen?”
“This man swimming aboard your schooner?”
“Why, nigh as I can remember, it must be fourteen or fifteen years ago—come next spring. It was in April, after the weather was right smart warm. Otherwise he wouldn’t have swum so far, I bet ye!”
My voice, I knew, had suddenly become husky. I was startled, though I don’t know why I should have felt so strangely as I reviewed this tale he had told.
“What was his name, Tom?” I asked.
“The name of the feller I was tellin’ you of?”
“Yes.”
“Carver.”