“A poor little mad boy,” continued the skipper, hastily, “who came aboard in London and said poor old Sam Brown was his father.”
“No—you, father,” cried the boy, shrilly.
“He calls everybody his father,” said the skipper, with a smile of anguish; “that’s the form his madness takes. He called Jem here his father.”
“No, he didn’t,” said the mate, bluntly.
“And then he thought Charlie was his father.”
“No, sir,” said Mr. Legge, with respectful firmness.
“Well, he said Sam Brown was,” said the skipper.
“Yes, that’s right, sir,” said the crew. “Where is Sam?” inquired Mrs. Hunt, looking round expectantly.
“He deserted the ship at Withersea,” said her husband.
“I see,” said Mrs. Hunt, with a bitter smile, “and these men have all come up prepared to swear that the boy said Sam was his father. Haven’t you?”