He bent his head, and Mrs. Boxer, separating the stubble with her
fingers, uttered an exclamation of pity and alarm at the extent of the
scar; Mrs. Gimpson, craning forward, uttered a sound which might mean
anything--even pity.

"When I come to my senses," continued Mr. Boxer, "the ship was sinking,
and I just got to my feet when she went down and took me with her. How I
escaped I don't know. I seemed to be choking and fighting for my breath
for years, and then I found myself floating on the sea and clinging to a
grating. I clung to it all night, and next day I was picked up by a
native who was paddling about in a canoe, and taken ashore to an island,
where I lived for over two years. It was right out o' the way o' craft,
but at last I was picked up by a trading schooner named the _Pearl,_
belonging to Sydney, and taken there. At Sydney I shipped aboard the
_Marston Towers,_ a steamer, and landed at the Albert Docks this
morning."

"Poor John," said his wife, holding on to his arm. "How you must have
suffered!"

"I did," said Mr. Boxer. "Mother got a cold?" he inquired, eying that
lady.

"No, I ain't," said Mrs. Gimpson, answering for herself. "Why didn't you
write when you got to Sydney?"

"Didn't know where to write to," replied Mr. Boxer, staring. "I didn't
know where Mary had gone to."

"You might ha' wrote here," said Mrs. Gimpson.