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"Glad to see you safely back, Captain Weaver," cried Miss Acton. Billy had heard and understood. When his dad sent him one of those "up and away" signals he never questioned its significance. He didn't like listening in secret, but surely he reasoned, a boy had a right to know just what was coming to him. And he knew what was coming to him, all right—a caning from the supple hickory ramrod—maybe! She made no sign. He repeated her name as though startled by her immobility in which an element of tragedy might have been found in the singular, unwinking fixity of her stare upon her hands. He stepped to her side, and peered closely into her face and listened to hear if she breathed. Oh yes: she breathed, she was alive. But though he put his face so close to her's that she might have felt his breath upon her cheek, her form did not move by so much as might indicate the passage of a thrill, her eyes remained as steadfast in their gaze as though they were painted..
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Billy shook his head. "I've got a skiff to paint 'fore three o'clock this afternoon," he said, "so I best get busy. Tell Erie not to ferget to blow the fog-horn when the ducks are done." "I am Admiral Sir William Lawrence," was next bawled. "Will you be so good as to inform me if Lord Nelson is on board one of those ships, and which ship?" Did he believe her mad, or did he conceive that she was merely feigning a part? His astonishment was unaffected and amazing; with the habit of senility he kept on muttering to himself aloud whilst he perused and re-perused the letter..
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