He drew forth a short, black pipe, and was soon puffing away upon it, while comfortably seated beside Don upon the rock.
“’Twere the werry night we sailed from the Cape,” he began, “that I was—er—in the cabin of the Silver Swan, lookin’ at a new chart the cap’n had got, when down comes a decently dressed chap—a landlubber, ev’ry inch o’ him—an’ asks if this were Cap’n Horace Tarr.
“‘It is,’ says the cap’n.
“‘Cap’n Horace Tarr, of Rhode Island, U. S. A.?’ says he.
“‘That’s me,’ says the cap’n ag’in.
“‘Well, Cap’n Tarr,’ says the stranger chap, a-lookin’ kinder squint eyed at me, ‘did you ever have a brother Anson?’
“Th’ cap’n noticed his lookin’ at me an’ says, afore he answered the question:
“‘Ye kin speak freely,’ says he, ‘this is my mate, Cale Wetherbee, an’ there ain’t a squarer man, nor an honester, as walks the deck terday,’ says he. ‘Yes, I had a brother Anson; but I persume he’s dead.’
“‘Yes, he is dead,’ said the stranger. ‘He died up country, at a place they calls Kimberley, ’bout two months ago.’
“That was surprisin’ ter the cap’n, I reckon, an’ he tol’ the feller that he’d supposed Anson Tarr dead years before, as he hadn’t heard from him.