He set before Percy a plate of smothered cod and a half-dozen hot biscuits. It was more thoughtfulness than Percy had expected.
"Much obliged, Filippo," he said, gratefully.
Filippo made no reply to this acknowledgment; but, as Percy ate, he could feel the young Italian watching him curiously. It was the first time Whittington had ever thanked him, and he did not understand it.
After he had finished eating, Percy took his plate, knife, and fork to the sink.
"Let me wash these, Filippo," he said.
"No," returned the Italian, "I do it."
But a look of surprise crossed his face. What had come over the millionaire's son?
Percy spent the rest of the forenoon on the ledges. At noon he came back to the cabin. He had steeled himself for the task before him, and he was not the fellow to do things half-way. The John P. Whittington in him was coming out.
Everybody else was in camp when he stepped inside. Lane did not look at him at all. Spurling and Stevens nodded coolly. Percy drew a long breath and launched at once into the brief speech he had spent the last three hours dreading.
"Fellows," he stammered, "I've been pretty rotten to all of you. There's no need of wasting any more words about that. Last night I took one of the boats and started to row up to Isle au Haut. But I got to thinking matters over out there on the water, and it changed my mind about a lot of things. So I came back. Jim, I want to apologize to you for what I said last night. I deserved what you gave me, and it's done me good. I want to stay here with you for the rest of the summer—if you're willing. I'll try to do my full share of the work. You can send me off the first time I shirk."