Captain Nemo, towing behind Spurling on his leash, got in Percy's way, and the boy stepped on his foot. Nemo yelped, then growled and bristled. "Get out, you cur!" exclaimed Percy, launching a kick at the beast. "Easy, Whittington!" warned Spurling. "A dog doesn't forget. You don't want to make an enemy of him at the start." "Enemy?" sneered Percy. "What do I care for that mangy cur! It'll teach him to keep out of my way." Jim bit his lip, but said nothing. In a few minutes they were on the wharf. A wiry, dark-complexioned lad of perhaps fifteen stood near the steamboat slip. He wore a faded suit of blue serge, a gray-flannel shirt with red necker-chief, and a soft black hat. His olive face and black eyes bespoke the Italian. Spurling and the others glanced at him casually; their interest was centered on assembling and loading their flotilla. "There's the _Barracouta!_" said Jim, pointing to a sloop moored a hundred yards away. "And there's Stinson's pea-pod tied to her stern. That yellow dory up on the ledge must be Uncle Tom's. He said we'd find her oars and fittings at Haskell's boatshop." Soon pea-pod and dory were being loaded beside the wharf. The young Italian had come to the string-piece, and was watching the embarkation. Jim saw that tears were trickling down his cheeks. "What's the matter?" he asked. The boy turned away, his breast heaving. Jim tossed the painter to Lane. "Look out for the boat a minute, Budge! I want to find what the trouble is with that young fellow." The lad had stepped across the wharf and was gazing sadly down into the water. Jim touched his shoulder. "Don't you feel well, son?" The kindly words had a surprising effect--the lad burst into tears. Jim tried to soothe him. "There, there! It can't be so bad as all that! Tell me about it." Little by little the boy's story came out. He was a Sicilian from a little village (_un villaggio_) not far from Messina. His name was Filippo Canamelli. His father was a mason (_un muratore_). Filippo and his older brother Frank had decided to seek their fortunes in America. Frank had gone over the year before, promising to send money back to pay for Filippo's passage. He had done so that winter, in _Febbrajo_. Filippo had sailed from Naples the next month, and had landed in New York in April. There he chanced upon a friend with whom his brother had left word for him to come to a certain address in Boston. But in that city he had lost all track of Frank. Searching aimlessly for him, he had drifted down to Stonington and had gone to work in the granite quarries. But he found the labor too hard and he was desperately homesick. He had given up his job the day before. What he should do and where he should go next he did not know. He talked rapidly between his sobs, while Jim listened. When he had finished, Spurling stepped across the wharf to his waiting friends. Very briefly he rehearsed the Italian's story.