"Harry," whispered Mr. Rogers, as we wound our way round the knoll,
"is this really the man who--"
"This is Aaron Glass," I said.
He stared down--for he carried the hinder end of the litter--upon the
villainous, unconscious face.
"He looks a pretty bad one," said Mr. Rogers, after a pause.
"You should have seen him on the beach," said I.
"I've seen something myself," said he. "Closer, boy--there was a
woman came down to the shore just now, waving to the ship and crying.
At first I took her for a child. She was dressed all in white--white
muslin and ribbons, you know--the sort of rig you see at a children's
party; but when I rowed over close to her--"
"I know her," I said. "I met her in the woods yesterday."
"That explains; though I call it an infernal shame you didn't tell.
I rowed across to find out what ailed her: she stood waving her arms
so, and crying--like a child in distress. When I came near she
called on to me to stop. 'Not you,' she said, 'the little boy!
Where is the little boy?' I told her that we had a boy on board, but
that just now you were off on a cruise; and with that she turned
right about, and ran up through the woods and out of sight; but for
some way I could hear her crying and calling out just as before:
'The little boy!' it was; 'Where is the little boy?'--meaning you, I
suppose.
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