“Nobody else seems to have heard of him either,” said the skipper, turning with him; “that’s the difficulty.”
He waited for a reply, but none came. The old man, with set face, walked on rapidly.
“He’s supposed to be in hiding,” continued the skipper. “If you should ever run across him you might tell him that his wife and daughter Annis have been wanting news of him for five years, and that he’s making all this trouble and fuss about a man who is as well and hearty as I am. Good-morning.”
The old man stopped abruptly, and taking his outstretched hand, drew a deep breath.
“Tell him—the—man—is alive?” he said in a trembling voice.
“Just that,” said the skipper gently, and seeing the working of the other’s face, looked away. For a little while they both stood silent, then the skipper spoke again.
“If I take you back,” he said, “I am to marry your daughter Annis.” He put his hand on the old man’s, and without a word the old man turned and went with him.
They walked back slowly towards the harbor, the young man talking, the old man listening. Outside the post office the skipper came to a sudden stop.
“How would it be to send a wire?” he asked.
“I think,” said the old man eagerly, as he followed him in, “it would be the very thing.”