Roger did not answer until the boat had come fairly close under the rail, and meanwhile young Webster stood looking up at him as if more than half expecting bad news. Only when the boat was so near that each could see the other's expression and hear every inflection of the other's voice, did Roger reply. "He is dead." "We heard a story," young Webster cried in great excitement, coming briskly aboard. "One Captain Craigie, brig Eve late from Bencoolen, brought it. An appalling tale of murder and mutiny. As he had it, the men mutinied against Mr. Thomas and against Mr. Falk when he assumed command. They seized the ship and killed Mr. Thomas and marooned Mr. Falk, who, while Captain Craigie was thereabouts, hustled a crew of fire-eating Malays and white adventurers and bought a dozen barrels of powder and set sail with a fleet of junks to retake the ship. But that, of course, is stuff and nonsense. Where's Falk?" "Falk," said Roger with a wry smile, "decided to spend the rest of his days at the Straits." "Oh!" Young Webster looked hard at Roger and then looked around the deck. All was ship-shape, but there were many strange faces. "Oh," he said again. "And you--" He stopped short. "And I?" Roger repeated. Again young Webster looked around the ship. He bit his lip. "What is _your_ story, Mr. Hamlin?" he said sharply. "Is your father here, Mr. Webster?" Roger asked. "No," the young man replied stiffly, "he is at Newburyport, but I have no doubt whatsoever that he will return at once when he hears you have arrived. This seems to be a strange situation, Mr. Hamlin. Who is in command here?" "I am, sir." "Oh!" After a time he added, "I heard rumors, but I refused to credit them." "What do you mean by that, sir?" Roger asked. "Oh, nothing much, sir. You evaded my question. What is _your_ story?" "_My_ story?" Roger looked him squarely in the eye. In Roger's own eyes there was the glint of his old humorous twinkle, and I knew that the young man's bustling self-importance amused him. "My story?" Roger repeated. "Why, such a story as I have to tell, I'll tell your father when I report to him." Young Webster reddened. "Oh!" he said with a sarcastic turn of his voice. "Stuff and nonsense! It may be--or it may not." And with that he stationed himself by the rail and said no more. When at last we had come to anchor and young Webster had gone hastily ashore and we had exchanged greetings at a distance with a number of acquaintances, Roger and Mr. Cledd and I sat down--perhaps more promptly than need be--over our accounts in the great cabin. I felt bitterly disappointed that none of my own people had come to welcome me; but realizing how silly it was to think that they surely must know of our arrival, I jumped at Roger's suggestion that we gather up our various documents and then leave Mr. Cledd in charge--he was not a Salem man--and hurry home as fast as we could go.