“Find out for yourself,” said I, not over-pleased to be interrupted.

“Don’t be cross to him,” says Molly.  The baby threw a kiss at the boy, and Molly smiled at him through the dark.  I don’t suppose I should ever have remembered the lubber from that day to this, except that I liked the looks of Molly smiling at him through the dark.

My wife and I said good-by the next morning in a little sheltered place among the lumber on the wharf; she was one of your women who never like to do their crying before folks.

She climbed on the pile of lumber and sat down, a little flushed and quivery, to watch us off.  I remember seeing her there with the baby till we were well down the channel.  I remember noticing the bay as it grew cleaner, and thinking that I would break off swearing; and I remember cursing Bob Smart like a pirate within an hour.

The breeze held steadier than we’d looked for, and we’d made a good offing and discharged the pilot by nightfall.  Mr. Whitmarsh—­he was the mate—­was aft with the captain.  The boys were singing a little; the smell of the coffee was coming up, hot and home-like, from the galley.  I was up in the maintop, I forget what for, when all at once there came a cry and a shout; and, when I touched deck, I saw a crowd around the fore-hatch.

“What’s all this noise for?” says Mr. Whitmarsh, coming up and scowling.

“A stow-away, sir!  A boy stowed away!” said Bob, catching the officer’s tone quick enough.  Bob always tested the wind well, when a storm was brewing.  He jerked the poor fellow out of the hold, and pushed him along to the mate’s feet.

I say “poor fellow,” and you’d never wonder why if you’d seen as much of stowing away as I have.

I’d as lief see a son of mine in a Carolina slave-gang as to see him lead the life of a stow-away.  What with the officers from feeling that they’ve been taken in, and the men, who catch their cue from their superiors, and the spite of the lawful boy who hired in the proper way, he don’t have what you may call a tender time.

This chap was a little fellow, slight for his years, which might have been fifteen, I take it.  He was palish, with a jerk of thin hair on his forehead.  He was hungry, and homesick, and frightened.  He looked about on all our faces, and then he cowered a little, and lay still just as Bob had thrown him.

“We—­ell,” says Whitmarsh, very slow, “if you don’t repent your bargain before you go ashore, my fine fellow,—­me, if I’m mate of the Madonna! and take that for your pains!”

Upon that he kicks the poor little lubber from quarter-deck to bowsprit, or nearly, and goes down to his supper.  The men laugh a little, then they whistle a little, then they finish their song quite gay and well acquainted, with the coffee steaming away in the galley.  Nobody has a word for the boy,—­bless you, no!

I’ll venture he wouldn’t have had a mouthful that night if it had not been for me; and I can’t say as I should have bothered myself about him, if it had not come across me sudden, while he sat there rubbing his eyes quite violent, with his face to the west’ard (the sun was setting reddish), that I had seen the lad before; then I remembered walking on the wharves, and him on the box, and Molly saying softly that I was cross to him.