I did not look up, but I was perfectly familiar with the expression of injured
innocence that was mantling his face.
He began again in a few minutes, but his voice had lost some of its engaging
frankness.
“I am the son of a kind and indulgent mother,—God bless her. My father died
before I knew him—”
I moved uneasily in my chair.
He hurried on:—
“I fell in bad ways in spite of her saintly love, and ran away to sea.”
“Look here, my friend,” I said, “I am sorry to spoil your little tale, but it is an old
one. Can’t you give me something new? Now try again.”
He looked at me unsteadily under his thin eyebrows, shuffled restlessly in his
seat, and said with something like a sob in his voice:—
“Well, sir, I will. You have been kind to me and taken my little gal in; you saved
her life, and, for a change, I’ll tell you the truth.”
He drew himself up a little too ostentatiously, threw his head back, and said
proudly:—
“I am a gentleman born.”
“Good,” I laughed. “Now you are on the right track, and besides you look it.”
“Ah! you may sneer,” he retorted, “but I tell you the truth.”
His face flushed and his lip quivered. He brought his fist down on the table.
“I tell you my father,—ah! but never mind my father.” His voice failed him.
“Certainly,” I replied. “Only get on with your story.”
“I came out to India from Boston as a young man,” he continued, “either in ’66