“There isn’t but one, Caleb,” replied Don encouragingly.
“I—I know it,” said Caleb, with a groan; “but she’s—she’s th’ spankin’est craft ever yer see! Sails allus new and fresh, riggin’ all taut—I tell ye, lad, it allus rattles me for fear I ain’t all trim.”
“You look first rate, Caleb,” Brandon assured him, stifling a desire to laugh as the old seaman evidently considered the occasion so serious. “I wouldn’t worry.”
“That’s easy enough for you to say,” returned Caleb, with another shake of his head. “You wouldn’t be Cap’n Horace’s son if ye didn’t find it all plain sailin’ in a city droorin’ room, same’s on th’ ship’s deck; but with me it’s different. Oh, Lordy! she’s hove in sight.”
There was a rustle of silken skirts, and Brandon looked up to see Miss Frances Pepper entering the room.
She was short and plump like her brother, though of considerable less weight, and she smiled like him. But otherwise Miss Pepper was rather prim and exact in her appearance, manner, and dress. As the sailor had said “her rigging was all taut,” and she looked as though she had just stepped out of a bandbox.
“My old friend. Mr. Whitherbee!” she exclaimed, holding out her hand to Caleb with unfeigned warmth.
“Wetherbee—Caleb Wetherbee, ma’am,” responded Caleb, in a monotone growl, seizing the tips of the lady’s fingers as though they were as fragile as glass, and he feared to crush them in his calloused palm.
“Oh, yes—Mr. Wetherbee,” she replied brightly, gazing frankly into the old seaman’s face, which naturally added materially to poor Caleb’s confusion. “I was very sorry to hear about your illness, and am glad you have at length been released from the hospital ward.”
Then she turned to Brandon who had also risen. She went up to him, and seizing both his hands imprinted a motherly kiss upon his forehead.