The two did not tell him of the sound they had heard upstairs, but let him talk of their adventure in the catboat, of the destroyer, of the ungrateful behaviour of the runaway _Josephine_. Occasionally his thoughts would wander a little and he would begin telling of some adventure long past; he went back more than once to the night when he had fallen asleep on watch and thought that he had seen a ship. He would bring himself back with a jerk and look at them wonderingly as though he did not quite understand, himself, how his ideas had become confused. Sally made him comfortable by moving the bench into a corner by the fire, whose warmth felt pleasant enough, even to the children, since the air in the old, closed-up mill seemed to grow even more damp and chilly as the night advanced. Billy pulled out the broken armchair for Sally, and she sat down in it gratefully, for she was weary with much trotting back and forth. She answered Captain Saulsby now and again when he paused in his rambling talk, but finally began to speak only at longer and longer intervals. Billy sat opposite on the uncomfortable stool; he propped his head against the chimney piece for a little rest; he did not feel sleepy, but he too was very tired. He watched Sally’s yellow head nod once or twice, he saw her eyelids grow heavier and heavier until at last they closed. She leaned sideways against the arm of the chair, heaved a long drowsy sigh and fell fast asleep.
Captain Saulsby did not seem in the least sleepy, but talked on and on, the thread of his conversation becoming ever more difficult to follow. His mind had dropped away entirely into the past; he talked of Singapore now, and of hot still nights on the Indian ocean, or of the restless, choppy tossing of the China Sea. Billy’s own thoughts wandered farther and farther away, pondering on questions of his own, the sound of the Captain’s voice becoming vague in his ears. He wondered dimly why the bluejackets had not come back; perhaps they had been picked up at the other landing place and had returned to the ship. He had assured them so earnestly that he could get assistance at Sally’s house that probably they had not thought of him again. When he found that the Shutes were away maybe he ought to have gone off at once by the road to get help. But no, that would have left Sally there alone for too long; it would not have been safe, especially with that possibility of something or somebody upstairs. Why, oh, why, had he slept through the ebb tide? That was what had caused all the trouble. His mind drifted further, to his mother and father in South America, and how much he would have to tell them when they got home. It would be more interesting to relate his tale to them than to Aunt Mattie, although she was proving to be rather a good sort, too. He liked Aunt Mattie; he would not have called her “an old-maid aunt” again for anything. How lucky it was she had gone to Boston and was not aware of any of his adventures. He watched the faint moonlight move across the floor, disappear and come into view again; he thought of Johann Happs and his broken clock, and wondered again about the man who had frightened him so. Dear, dear, but this was a long night; would it ever end? He rose at last, walked stiffly over to mend the dying fire and then, going to the door, stood for a little peering out.