from anger at his
being away when he should have done the chores". He saw Mr. Scraper
sitting in his arm-chair, cold and dead, with the rats running over the
floor at his feet, because he, John, had not set the trap. A scream rose
to his lips, but he choked it back; and sitting up in desperation, drew
aside the red curtains and looked out.

The cabin lay dim and quiet before him. A lantern hung in the middle,
turned low, and by its light he could see the shelves, with their
shining rows of shells, and the glass counter with the sea-jewelry.
Directly opposite him, only the narrow space of the cabin between, lay
the Skipper in his bunk, sleeping peacefully. The wild fear died away in
the child's heart as he saw the calmness and repose of the stalwart
figure. One arm was thrown out; the strong, shapely hand lay with the
palm open toward him, and there was infinite cheer and hospitality in
the attitude. In the dim light the Skipper's features looked less firm
and more kind; yet they were always kind. It was not possible that this
was a bad man, a stealer of children, a pilferer of old men's cupboards.

If one could think that he had been playing all the time, making
believe, just as a person did one's self; but John had never known any
grown people who could make believe; they had either forgotten, or else
they were ashamed of the knowledge. Once, it was true, he had persuaded
Mr. Bill Hen Pike to be Plymouth Rock, when he wanted to land in the
"Mayflower;" but just as the landing was about to be effected, Mrs. Pike
had called wrathfully from the house, and the rock sprang up and
shambled off without even a word of apology or excuse. So grown people
did not understand these things, probably; and yet,--yet if it had been
play, what glorious times one could have, with a real creese, and a real
schooner, and everything delightful in the world!

How could he be bad and look like that? The child bent forward and
strained his eyes on the sleeping face. So quiet, so strong, so gentle!
He tried putting other faces beside it, for he saw faces well, this boy,
and remembered what he had seen. He tried Mr. Scraper's face, with the
ugly blink to the red eyes, and the two wrinkles between the eyes, and
the little nest of spiteful ones that came about his mouth when he was
going to be angry; even when he slept--the old gentleman--his hands were
clenched tight--how different from that open palm, with its silent
welcome!--and his lips pu