The old woman sighed sympathetically. “Won’t you sit down?” she said.
“Thank you,” said the skipper, and took the edge of the sofa.
“You’re not quite certain of the name?” suggested the girl coldly.
“It—it sounded like Jackson,” murmured the intruder in a small, modest voice. “It might have been Blackson, or Dackson, or even Snackson—I won’t swear to it.”
The old woman put her hand to her brow. “I thought perhaps you might have brought me some news of my poor husband,” she said at length. “I lost him some years ago, and when you came here inquiring for a seafaring man I thought you might somehow have brought news.”
“You must see, mother, that this gentleman is looking for somebody else,” said the girl; “you are hindering him from finding Captain Jackson.”
“If he’s been looking for him for years,” said the old woman, bridling mildly, “a few minutes will not make much difference.”
“Certainly not,” said Wilson, in a voice which he tried in vain to make stronger. “When you say lost, ma’am, you mean missing?”
“Five years,” said the old woman, shaking her head and folding her hands in her lap. “How long do you say you’ve been looking for Captain Jackson?”
“Seven,” said the skipper with a calmness which surprised himself.