When a man has lost his only son, his summer’s work, and his means of livelihood, in thirty counted seconds, it is hard to give consolation.
“All Gloucester men, wasn’t they?” said Tom Platt, fiddling helplessly with a dory-becket.
“Oh, that don’t make no odds,” said Jason, wringing the wet from his beard. “I’ll be rowin’ summer boarders araound East Gloucester this fall.” He rolled heavily to the rail, singing:
“Happy birds that sing and fly Round thine altars, O Most High!”
“Come with me. Come below!” said Penn, as though he had a right to give orders. Their eyes met and fought for a quarter of a minute.
“I dunno who you be, but I’ll come,” said Jason submissively. “Mebbe I’ll get back some o’ the—some o’ the-nine thousand dollars.” Penn led him into the cabin and slid the door behind.
“That ain’t Penn,” cried Uncle Salters. “It’s Jacob Boiler, an’—he’s remembered Johnstown! I never seed such eyes in any livin’ man’s head. What’s to do naow? What’ll I do naow?”
They could hear Penn’s voice and Jason’s together. Then Penn’s went on alone, and Salters slipped off his hat, for Penn was praying.
Presently the little man came up the steps, huge drops of sweat on his face, and looked at the crew. Dan was still sobbing by the wheel.
“He don’t know us,” Salters groaned. “It’s all to do over again, checkers and everything—an’ what’ll he say to me?”
Penn spoke; they could hear that it was to strangers.