"Look here: could you make it convenient to go fishing for conger this next night or two—and to go alone?"
I saw that he had something more to say, and waited.
"The fact is," he went on after a glance towards the house, "I have a ticklish job to carry through—the queerest in all my experience; and unfortunately I want help as well as secrecy. After some perplexity I've resolved to ask you: because, upon my word, you're the only person I can ask. That doesn't sound flattering—eh? But it isn't your fitness I doubt, or your nerve. I've hesitated because it isn't fair to drag you into an affair which, I must warn you, runs counter to the law in a small way."
I let out a low whistle. "A smuggling job?" I suggested.
"Good Heavens, boy! What do you take me for?"
"I beg your pardon, then. But when you talk of a row-boat—at night—a job that wants secrecy—breaking the law—"
"I'll have to tell you the whole tale, I see: and it's only fair."
"Not a bit," said I stoutly. "Tell me what you want done and I'll do it. Afterwards tell me your reasons, if you care to. Indeed, Sir, I'd rather have it that way, if you don't mind. I was abominably disrespectful this afternoon—"
"No more about that."
"But I was: and with your leave, Sir, that's the form of apology I'll choose."