Undersea Quest

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I saw my uncle, Stewart Eden, for the first time when I was all of ten years old.

He came to our home in New London where our family had always lived. The old housekeeper, Mrs. Flaherty, who was all the “family” I had left, had prepared me for his coming. But she hadn’t prepared me for the way he looked.

I was standing on the porch as my uncle came unevenly up the walk. He was a huge pale giant of a man, bronze bearded, limping a little from some old scar. His voice was strangely soft.

“You’re Jim,” he said, and scratched his head. That was all. I don’t suppose he knew much about ten-year- olds, or whether I was likely to laugh or cry or hide behind the door when he came to visit. I think he suspected that if he patted my head or even shook my hand I might burst into tears—as though I would! I had been standing alone, except for the housekeeper, as far back as I could remember.

But my uncle couldn’t take the chance, because he didn’t have time for tears.

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