John pondered, in wonder and some trouble of mind.  There was something that he had to say, something very hard; but it would not be polite just now, and he must answer a question when he was asked.  “I—­I thought it was a fine room!” he said at length, timidly.  “It isn’t as bright, somehow, as where I used to live with my mother, and—­it seems to stay shut up, even when it isn’t; but—­I guess it’s a fine room, sir; and then, if a person didn’t like it, there’s all out-doors, you know, and that’s never shut up.”

“True!” cried the Skipper, with a merry laugh; “out of doors is never shut up, praise be to Heaven!” He pulled off his cap, and looked up at the shining sky.  They were standing on the door-step now, and John noticed that his companion seemed much less grave than usual.  He laughed, he patted the boy on the shoulder, he hummed snatches of strange, sweet melodies.  Once or twice he broke out into speech, but it was foreign speech, and John knew nothing save that it was something cheerful.  They walked about the garden, and the Skipper surveyed John’s work, and pronounced it prodigious.  He questioned the child closely, too, as to how he lived, and what he did, and why he stayed with Mr. Scraper.  But the child could tell him little.  He supposed it was all right; his mother was dead, and there was nobody else, and Mr. Scraper said he was his father’s uncle, and that the latter had appointed him guardian over John in case of the mother’s death.  That was all, he guessed.

“All, my faith!” cried the Skipper, gayly.  “Enough, too, Colorado! quite enough, in the opinion of me.  But I go, my son!  Till a little while; you will come to-day to the ‘Nautilus,’ yes?”

But little John stood still in the path, and looked up in his friend’s face.  The time had come when he must do the hard thing, and it was harder even than he had thought it would be.  His throat was very dry, and he tried once or twice before the words would come.  At last—­“I beg your pardon!” he said.  “I am only a little boy, and perhaps there is something I don’t understand; but—­but—­I don’t think you ought to have done that!”

“Done what, son of mine?” asked the Skipper, gazing down at him with the bright, kind eyes that he loved, and that would not be kind the next moment, perhaps.  “What is it I have done?”

“To take the papers!” said John; and now his voice was steady, and he knew quite well what he must say, if only his heart would not beat so loud in his ears!  “I don’t think it was right; but perhaps you know things that make it right for you.  But—­but Mr. Scraper left me here, to take care of the house, and—­and I shall have to tell him that you went into the parlour and took things out of the cupboard.”