“What is it—second sight?”
“No, that’s all bosh! It’s—it’s—I don’t know how to put it—the being on the spot when out-of-the-way affairs come off,—sensational things, accidents, discoveries, deaths. They seem to drop into my day’s work in an extraordinary way; sometimes I begin to think I’ve got the Evil Eye!”
“Now that’s nonsense if you like! You have knocked about a good deal for the last seven years, and naturally seen far more than people at home.”
“Well, anyhow, I wish this queer sort of fate would change, and shove me towards something different—a good post.”
“And you believe you’d keep it?”
“Anyway, I’d do my little best. My three weeks as steward were a breaking-in.”
“But you were acting all the time, Owen—you know you love it! and you realised that there was a limit to the experience?”
“No, honour bright, I wasn’t playing the fool. I am quick and ready, and not afraid of work. I say, look here,” and he took his hands out of his pockets and held them up, the palms towards her.
“Oh, oh, my poor dear boy! they are like—like—leather! Like a working man’s, only clean!”
“Well, I never was a kid-glove chap, and the reins have hardly been out of them for twelve months. I’m fairly good with my hands, although an awful duffer with my head.”