“If one of ’em gits overboard,” she said one day to her husband, “t’other kin save him.”

“Save him!  Well, I guess!” he replied.  “Salt water skims off Archie same’s if he was a white bellied gull; can’t drown him no more’n you kin a can buoy.”

The boy has never forgotten Scootsy’s epithet, although he has never spoken of it to his mother—­ no one knows her now by any other name.  She thought the episode had passed out of his mind, but she did not know everything that lay in the boy’s heart.  He and Tod had discussed it time and again, and had wondered over his own name and that of his nameless father, as boys wonder, but they had come to no conclusion.  No one in the village could tell them, for no one ever knew.  He had asked the doctor, but had only received a curious answer.

“What difference does it make, son, when you have such a mother?  You have brought her only honor, and the world loves her the better because of you.  Let it rest until she tells you; it will only hurt her heart if you ask her now.”

The doctor had already planned out the boy’s future; he was to be sent to Philadelphia to study medicine when his schooling was over, and was then to come into his office and later on succeed to his practice.

Captain Holt would have none of it.

“He don’t want to saw off no legs,” the bluff old man had blurted out when he heard of it.  “He wants to git ready to take a ship ’round Cape Horn.  If I had my way I’d send him some’er’s where he could learn navigation, and that’s in the fo’c’s’le of a merchantman.  Give him a year or two before the mast.  I made that mistake with Bart—­he loafed round here too long and when he did git a chance he was too old.”

Report had it that the captain was going to leave the lad his money, and had therefore a right to speak; but no one knew.  He was closer-mouthed than ever, though not so gruff and ugly as he used to be; Archie had softened him, they said, taking the place of that boy of his he “druv out to die a good many years ago.”

Jane’s mind wavered.  Neither profession suited her.  She would sacrifice anything she had for the boy provided they left him with her.  Philadelphia was miles away, and she would see him but seldom.  The sea she shrank from and dreaded.  She had crossed it twice, and both times with an aching heart.  She feared, too, its treachery and cruelty.  The waves that curled and died on Barnegat beach —­messengers from across the sea—­brought only tidings fraught with suffering.

Archie had no preferences—­none yet.  His future was too far off to trouble him much.  Nor did anything else worry him.

One warm September day Archie turned into Yardley gate, his so’wester still on his head framing his handsome, rosy face; his loose jacket open at the throat, the tarpaulins over his arm.  He had been outside the inlet with Tod—­since daybreak, in fact—­fishing for bass and weakfish.