"I'll tell you before long. There is no hurry, you see"—with a sort of grim humour—"there is no post to catch, no homeward-bound mail steamer in the harbour. We cannot give each other the slip now."
"Do you mean that I gave you the slip?" said Brian, to whom Percival's tone was charged with offence.
"I mean that Brian Luttrell would not have been allowed to leave England quite so easily as Mr. Stretton was. But I won't discuss it just now. You'll excuse my observing that I think I would drop the 'Mackay' if I were you. It will hurt nobody here if you are called Luttrell; and—I hate disguises."
"The name Luttrell is as much a disguise as any other," said Brian, shortly. "But you may use it if you choose."
He was hardly prepared, however, for the round eyes with which the lad Barry regarded him when he next entered the log hut, nor for the awkward way in which he gave a bashful smile and pulled the front lock of his hair when Brian spoke to him.
"What are you doing that for?" he said, quickly.
"Well, sir, it's Mr. Heron's orders," said Barry.
"What orders?"
"That we're to remember you're a gentleman, sir. Gone steerage in a bit of a freak; but now you've told him you'd prefer to be called by your proper name. Mr. Luttrell, that is."
"I'm no more a gentleman than you are," said Brian, abruptly. "Call me Mackay at once as you used to do."