At length he laid down his knife and fork, and drinking off the ale, intimated that he had finished.
“My boy, my boy,” said the old woman in a broken voice, “I thought you had gone down with Tetby’s Pride long years ago.”
He shook his head heavily.
“The captain and crew, and the good ship,” asked his mother. “Where are they?”
“Captain—and—crew,” said the son, in a strange hesitating fashion; “it is a long story—the ale has made me heavy. They are—”
He left off abruptly and closed his eyes.
“Where are they?” asked his mother. “What happened?”
He opened his eyes slowly.
“I—am—tired—dead tired. I have not—slept. I’ll tell—you—morning.”
He nodded again, and the old woman shook him gently.