THE CAPTAIN'S STORY.
What manner of mankind is he
Who dares impersonate the dead?
Alas! The doom of treachery
Must some day fall upon his head.
"It was twelve years ago," the Captain was saying, "and I was in charge
of the 'Water Sprite,' running from Liverpool to Calcutta. She was a
rakish little craft, with a slippery keel,--quick to mind her helm and
would carry sail to the last, but we'd had a long, rough voyage and all
hands was pretty nigh used up, but when we was about three days from the
eastern port we was struck, almost unawares, by a terrible gale. I say
unawares, but I must own we was in pretty good shape for squalls all the
time, but on this partic'lar night I staid below more'n I should if it
hadn't been that one of the young chaps that shipped 'tween decks in the
cargo at Liverpool, was a dyin' out of pure out and out sea sickness.
"Well, as I was sayin; the first officer was on the bridge and I was
sittin' below with young Sinclair, when"--
"Excuse me, Captain,--Sinclair, did you say?" exclaimed Sir Frederic,
suddenly aroused to interest by the familiar name.
"Aye, Aye, Sir, Maurice Sinclair, a lad of about fifteen years. He said
he'd got into some scrape at home and had just started out on his own
hook, and"--
"Maurice Sinclair,--Twelve years ago,--Did he die?" Sir Frederic almost
screamed in the old Captain's ear as a howling blast swept by, nearly
driving their feet from under them.
The old man steadied him with a powerful hand but his ire was rising at
these frequent interruptions to his favorite yarn, and he answered
somewhat snappishly, "Die? Yes, poor lad. He died in my arms that very
night in the height of the gale, when the rigging was swept away and
the waves was washing the upper deck--"
"Can you prove that?" demanded Sir Frederic, excitedly.
"Prove what? that the rigging was swept away?" thundered the old salt,
now thoroughly angry.
"No! No!--that Maurice Sinclair died in your arms, twelve years ago."
Well I ruther guess I can, seein' as I've got the young chap's partin'
letter to his mother in London and a picter of the old lady herself"--
"Let me see it, quick," said Sir Frederic, then in a measure controlling
himself, he told him as briefly as possible of Maurice Sinclair's return
to his mother's house a little over two years ago and of the crime for
which he was wanted by the city authorities.
The old Captain was inclined to be incredulous, but before Sir Frederic
had finished his story, his ire had vanished, so also had all
recollection of the yarn he had been about to spin, and leaving the
timid young man to return as best he could, he laid his hand on Sir
Frederic's arm and hurried him down the companion way while he muttered
spitefully between his teeth:
"It's a lie. Maurice Sinclair is dead, and that rascal, whoever he is,
is a Damned Imposter!"