“Knew him! Why, my boy, I was his best friend!” declared the sailor. “Didn’t you ever hear him speak of Cale Wetherbee?”
“Caleb Wetherbee!” cried Don, with some pleasure.
He had never seen his father’s mate, but he had heard the captain speak of him many times. This man did not quite come up to his expectation of what the mate of the Silver Swan should have been, but he knew that his father had trusted Caleb Wetherbee, and that appearances are sometimes deceitful.
“Indeed I have heard him speak of you many times,” and the boy’s voice trembled slightly as he offered his hand a second time far more warmly.
“Yes, sir,” repeated the sailor, blowing his nose with ostentation, “I’m an old friend o’ your father’s. He—he died in my arms.”
Brandon wiped his own eyes hastily. He had loved his father with all the strength of his nature, and his heart was too sore yet to be rudely touched.
“Why, jest before he—he died, he give me them papers to send to ye, ye know.”
As he said this the man flashed a quick, keen look at Brandon, but it was lost upon him.
“What papers?” he asked with some interest.
“What papers?” repeated the sailor, springing up. “D’ye mean ter say ye never got a package o’ papers from me a—a month ergo, I reckon ’twas?”