“I haven’t received anything through the mail since the news came of the loss of the brig,” declared Don, rising also.
“Then that mis’rable swab of an ’orspital fellow never sent ’em!” declared the man, with apparent anger. “Ye see, lad, I was laid up quite a spell in the ’orspital—our sufferings on that raft was jest orful—an’ I couldn’t help myself. But w’en your father died he left some papers with me ter be sent ter you, an’ I got the ’orspital nurse to send ’em. An’ you must hev got ’em—eh?”
“Not a thing,” replied Brandon convincingly. “Were they of any value?”
“Valible? I should say they was!” cried the sailor. “Werry valible, indeed. Why, boy, they’d er made our—I sh’d say your—fortune, an’ no mistake!”
Without doubt his father’s old friend was strangely moved by the intelligence he had received, and Don could not but be interested in the matter.
CHAPTER III
AN ACCOUNT OF THE WRECK OF THE SILVER SWAN
“To what did these papers bear reference?” Brandon asked. “Father met with heavy misfortunes in his investments last year, and every penny, excepting the Swan itself, was lost. How could these papers have benefited me?”
“Well, that I don’t rightly know,” replied the sailor slowly.
He looked at the boy for several seconds with knitted brows, evidently deep in thought. Brandon could not help thinking what a rough looking specimen he was, but remembering his father’s good opinion of Caleb Wetherbee, he banished the impression as ungenerous.
“I b’lieve I’ll tell ye it jest as it happened,” said the man at length. “Sit down here again, boy, an’ I’ll spin my yarn.”