The captain was non-committal. "Well," he concluded, "it don't do to decide rashly."
Paul felt that this remark might refer to his rashness in having run away. Tears threatened to break through his defences, as he got up from the settee. He was unwilling to leave the matter on such a dubious footing. He was wretched and craved some crumb of encouragement.
"If you were my father, instead of you, sir," he ventured, in husky tones, "would you think me awful for acting the way I have?"
The captain rose from his chair and placed a hand on Paul's shoulder. "Oh, I don't know as I'd go that far," he said. "At any rate, if I was your father, instead of me, I'd be a damn sight better man than I am . . . He'd a been pleased at the way you've kept the slop-chest accounts and done the brass. And, if he'd a gone for to blame you, you could a reminded him that he run away himself when he was a lad."
"Oh, did he?" Paul's throat ached. He wanted to thank the old man for something, but didn't know what, nor how.
"Better turn in now," advised the captain.
The dread that he might be sent home, tinging all his moods during the ensuing days, added a strange poignancy to Paul's impressions. The little town with its narrow streets and low brick buildings was full of marvels. The commonest objects wore an aspect so different from corresponding objects at home that they acquired an abnormal intrinsic interest. Instead of asking for candy you asked for lollies; instead of buying chocolate dudes you bought little cardboard boxes labelled "Fry's" or "Cadbury's." You had to be
