They turned up a small road in the direction of home and walked on in silence, until the mate, glancing behind at an acquaintance who had just passed, uttered a sharp exclamation. The skipper turned, and a small figure which had just shot round the corner stopped in mid-career and eyed them warily. The men exchanged uneasy glances.
“Father,” cried a small voice.
“He—he’s adopted you now,” said the skipper, huskily.
“Or you,” said the mate. “I never took much notice of him.”
He looked round again. Master Jones was following briskly, about ten yards in the rear, and twenty yards behind him came the crew, who, having seen him quit the ship, had followed with the evident intention of being in at the death.
“Father,” cried the boy again, “wait for me.”
One or two passers-by stared in astonishment, and the mate began to be uneasy as to the company he was keeping.
“Let’s separate,” he growled, “and see who he’s calling after.”
The skipper caught him by the arm. “Shout out to him to go back,” he cried.
“It’s you he’s after, I tell you,” said the mate. “Who do you want, Billy?”