There was silence for a moment,—­silence, all but the throbbing that seemed as if it must deafen the child, as it was choking him.  He stood looking at the ground, his face in a flame, his eyes full of hot, smarting tears.  Was it he who had stolen the papers?  Surely anyone would have thought so who saw his anguish of confusion.  And the Skipper did not speak!  And this was his friend, the first heart-friend the child had ever had, perhaps the only one that would ever come to him, and he was affronting him, casting him off, accusing him of vileness!  Unable to bear the pain any longer, the child looked up at last, and as he did so, the tears overflowed and ran down his round cheeks.  The dark eyes were as kind as ever.  They were smiling, oh, so tenderly!  John hid his face on his blue sleeve, and sobbed to his heart’s content; somehow, without a word, the dreadful pain was gone, and the blessed feeling had returned that this friend knew all about things, and understood little boys, and liked them.

The Skipper did not speak for a moment, only stood and stroked the boy’s curly hair with a light, soft touch, almost as his mother used to stroke it.  Then he said, in his deep, grave voice, that was sweeter than music, John thought.

“Colorado! my little son, my friend!” That was enough for a few minutes, till the sobs were quieted, and only the little breast heaved and sank, tremulously, like the breast of a frightened bird.  Then the Skipper led him to a rustic bench, and sat down beside him, and took his hand.

“And that hurt you to say, my little son?” he said, smiling.  “That hurt you, because you thought it would vex the friend from the Bahamas, the friend who steals.  And yet you like him a little, is it not?”

“Oh!” cried John, looking up with all his heart in his blue eyes; and no other word was needed.

“See, then!” the Skipper went on, still holding the boy’s hand; “it is that you are right, Colorado, oh, very right, my son! and I, who am old, but old enough to be twice to you a father, I thought not of this.  Yes, you must tell Sir Scraper, if—­if I do not tell him first.”  He was silent a moment, thinking; and then continued, speaking slowly, choosing his words with care:  “Is it that you think, Colorado, it would be wrong to wait a little before you tell Sir Scraper—­if I said, till to-morrow?  If I ask you to wait, and then, if I have not told him, you shall tell him,—­what do you say of that, my son?”

John looked helplessly around, his blue eyes growing big and wistful again.  “If—­if he should ask me!” he said.  “I am sure you know all about it, and that it is all right for you, but if he should ask me—­you see—­I—­I should have to answer him, shouldn’t I?”

“You would have to answer him!” the Skipper repeated, frowning thoughtfully.  “And you could not tell him that there were flying-fish in the cabin, eh, Colorado?  Wait then, that your friend thinks.  The mind moves at times slowly, my son, slowly!”