“I want my father,” cried the youth, and, to prevent any mistake, indicated the raging skipper with his finger.
“Who do you want?” bellowed the latter, in a frightful voice.
“Want you, father,” chirrupped Master Jones.
Wrath and dismay struggled for supremacy in the skipper’s face, and he paused to decide whether it would be better to wipe Master Jones off the face of the earth or to pursue his way in all the strength of conscious innocence. He chose the latter course, and, a shade more erect than usual, walked on until he came in sight of his house and his wife, who was standing at the door.
“You come along o’ me, Jem, and explain,” he whispered to the mate. Then he turned about and hailed the crew. The crew, flattered at being offered front seats in the affair, came forward eagerly.
“What’s the matter?” inquired Mrs. Hunt, eyeing the crowd in amazement as it grouped itself in anticipation.
“Nothing,” said her husband, off-handedly.
“Who’s that boy?” cried the innocent woman.
“It’s a poor little mad boy,” began the skipper; “he came aboard—”
“I’m not mad, father,” interrupted Master Jones.