Archer meditated, with thoughts unfriendly. There was some hidden malice in his next words,—
"Why, sir, you're like Prospero and Miranda."
The other started in his chair, suddenly wide awake. But the hint was lost.
"Prodigiously apt!" he exclaimed, all in a flutter. "So simple, but so good. It holds closely. And I had never once thought of it! Young man," he cried, almost beaming, "why did n't you tell me you were no common sailor?" In his joy, he poured for himself from the bottle. "A boy who has read, in these days!" He drained his glass and refilled it. "You must stay with me—a week at least—and we shall have good talk, I foresee.—This parallel of yours—I am ashamed never to have seen it—showing that an outsider has the better perspective of one's life." He got up and walked about nervously before the fire. "I am Prospero, to be sure,—and my book—and as for Trinculos and Stephanos, Black Harbor is lousy with them. Here is my cell—and
