"Keep off! Keep off! If you don't I'll scream for help!"
Masters' thoughts went off at a tangent. Love is a leveller. Even authors, under the influence of that other circumstance to which all flesh is heir, are not superior to a passion for the conjunction of octavo sheets and pens. It found expression in Masters' exclamation:
"The letters!"
Dick, inexperienced in such matters, failed to understand. His denseness was irritating. He was aware of that, but only with intent to provoke, ejaculated:
"Eh?"
"The letters! Don't you understand? We haven't touched port yet—not near it."
"Four hours off yet."
"Then I shall have time to write to your sister myself."
"What—in four hours? Bold adventurer! If at first you don't succeed, try, try, try, again. Your bravery unmans me! Excuse these tears!"
"Clear out of this cabin, Dick, and leave me to myself. I want to write."