"The Maestro would like to hear you play," Kirk murmured. "He loves queer tunes like that. He even likes the ones I make up."
"Oh, you make up tunes, do you?"
"Little ones. But he makes wonderful ones,—and he plays wonderfully, too."
"Who?"
"The Maestro."
"Who's he?"
Kirk told him—at great length. He likewise unburdened his heart, which had been steeped so long in loneliness and terror, and recounted the wonder and beauty of Applegate Farm, and Felicia and Ken, and the model ship, and the Maestro's waiting garden, and all that went to make up his dear, familiar world, left so long ago, it seemed.
"But," he said rather mournfully, "I don't know whether I shall ever see any of them again, if we just keep on sailing and sailing. Are you going back to South America again?"
The mate laughed a little. "No," he said. "The Celestine's going to Bedford. We can't put her off her course to drop you at Asquam—harbor's no good, anyhow. My time's up when she docks. I'll take you home."
