This fruit was McClintock's particular pride. "I might return the question. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. He tells me that you will not even see him. Don't suppose," she added, with a scornful glance at her helpmate, "that I would pay him the compliment of thinking he could possibly be the father of such a boy as you. You want me to be clean. Jack, however, had an expedient for mastering this difficulty. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. She had expected sympathetic admiration, but instead the whole Widgett family, except Teddy, expressed a common dismay. .
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