"Keep off!... If you evict me from my cabin—I believe you are a woild Oirish landlord in disguise, you spalpeen—I'll sue you for damages, and have you hanged at the yard arm."
"Out you go!"
That time the boy's dodging ended in failure; his laughter rather handicapped him. The other, laughing triumphantly, caught, struggled with and pushed him out of the cabin. Clapping the door to, bolted it.
Then Masters sought again his berth, intending to indulge in a little castle-building: aerial kind. Dick's tattooing on the door-panels with his fists eliciting no reply, he bent and shouted through the keyhole:
"You bushranging brigand! You buccaneering bandit! You blood-thirsty old skull-and-cross-bones, you! I've just remembered that this is piracy! Piracy on the high seas! I'm going straight to the Captain to get the handcuffs polished up. I'll make it my business to see you go back to England in irons. Put that in your pipe and smoke it."
With that he retired—to the accompaniment of a shrilly whistled Rule Britannia and a tramp as of soldiers. Masters was left the opportunity of writing his love-letter.
He came out of the land of dreams. Sat down at the table, and drew paper and pen towards him, implements of his trade. Spent time in looking at the paper, pen in hand, but no words were formed.
It seemed strange that a man who for many years had gained a living by dexterous juggling with words should be unable to shape them now. But they would not come, to his satisfaction.
"What can I say on paper," he thought, "which will exhibit my awakened conscience? Will be sufficiently contrite and penitent to appeal to her? Nothing! Half the meaning of a letter lies in the reading of it. She would be justified, fully justified, from her present point of view, if she were to throw it into the fire without reading it at all."
A look of gloom settled on his countenance; he asked himself: