"What!" said the sailor. "Has them thirteen men been a-sitting here all these years?"
"My dear sir," said the Third Vice-President, "I assure you we saw them with our own eyes. But you will perhaps be kind enough to tell us who you are, and how you came to be locked up in that closet."
"Humph!" said the sailor, hesitating. "I don't know who you are, nor what you're doing in this here place. However, if Lingo's gone, and—Oh well, I might as well tell you. By the looks of you, I ain't got much cause to be afraid."
"Your courtesy under the circumstances will be much appreciated," said the Third Vice-President.
"Courtesy be blowed," said the sailorman. "Well, here goes. I'm Matthew Speak, able-bodied seaman, of the brig Cotton Mather, out of New Bedford, Reuben Higginson, master."
"What!" cried Aunt Amanda, almost shrieking. "Are you—? The Cotton Mather! Reuben Higginson! Did you know him? It ain't possible! I can't believe it!"
"It ain't nothing to me whether you believes it or not. I shipped with Reuben Higginson at New Bedford and landed here with him and his crew on this same identical Island, all tight and safe; here on Correction Island, as the cap'n called it."
"What!" cried Aunt Amanda again. "Is this Correction Island? Well, I never! Here we are on Correction Island after all, and we never knew it! Are you sure?"
"That's what he called it, believe me or not. It ain't nothing to me, but I seen it on the map I sold to Mizzen, and the cap'n wrote it there in his own handwrite; that's all I know; but maybe if you'd hunt up this here Lemuel Mizzen, a sailor with a patch on one eye and—"
"Well, of all things!" exclaimed Aunt Amanda.