Captain Lote's lip twitched. “Yes, Mother,” he said, “it's about as mysterious as the clock's strikin' twelve when it's noon. _I_ know it's morally sartin that Labe'll be back aboard to-day or to-morrow because his sprees don't ever last more than five days. I can't swear to how she knows, but that's how _I_ know--and I'm darned sure there's no 'sympathy' about my part.” Then, as if realizing that he had talked more than usual, he called, brusquely: “Come on, Al, come on. Time we were on the job, boy.”
Sure enough, as they passed the window of the office, there, seated on the stool behind the tall desk, Albert saw the diminutive figure of the man who had been his driver on the night of his arrival. He was curious to see how the delinquent would apologize for or explain his absence. But Mr. Keeler did neither, nor did Captain Snow ask a question. Instead the pair greeted each other as if they had parted in that office at the close of business on the previous day.
“Mornin', Cap'n Lote,” said Laban, quietly.
“Mornin', Labe,” replied the captain, just as calmly.
He went on and opened his own desk, leaving his grandson standing by the door, not knowing whether to speak or offer to shake hands. The situation was a little difficult, particularly as Mr. Keeler gave no sign of recognition, but, after a glance at his employer's companion, went on making entries in the ledger.
Captain Zelotes looked up a moment later. His gray eyes inspected the pair and the expression on Albert's face caused them to twinkle slightly. “Labe,” he said, “this is my grandson, Albert, the one I told you was comin' to live with us.”
Laban turned on the stool, regarded Albert over his spectacles, and extended a hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “Yes, yes . . . Yes, yes, yes. . . Pleased to meet you. Cap'n Lote said you was comin'--er--er--Alfred. Howdy do.”
They shook hands. Mr. Keeler's hand trembled a little, but that was the only symptom of his recent “vacation” which the youth could notice. Certain vivid remembrances of his father's bad humor on mornings following convivial evenings recurred to him. Was it possible that this odd, precise, dried-up little man had been on a spree for four days? It did not seem possible. He looked more as if he might be expected to rap on the desk and ask the school to come to order.