“I can let you have a rug, with pleasure,” said Beecher, overhearing the request; while he drew from a recess beneath the binnacle one of those serviceable aids to modern travel in the shape of a strong woollen blanket.
“I accept your offer most willingly, and the more so as I suspect I have had the honor of being presented to you,” said the stranger. “Do I address Mr. Annesley Beecher?”
“Eh?—I'm not aware—I'm not quite sure, by this light,” began Beecher, in considerable embarrassment, which the other as quickly perceived, and remedied by saying,—
“I met you at poor Kellett's. My name is Conway.”
“Oh, Conway,—all right,” said Beecher, laughing. “I was afraid you might be a 'dark horse,' as we say. Now that I know your colors, I'm easy again.”
Conway laughed too at the frankness of the confession, and they turned to walk the deck together.
“You mentioned Kellett. He 's gone 'toes up,' is n't he?” said Beecher.
“He is dead, poor fellow,” said Conway, gravely. “I expected to have met you at his funeral.”
“So I should have been had it come off on a Sunday,” said Beecher, pleasantly; “but as in seeing old Paul 'tucked in' they might have nabbed me, I preferred being reported absent without leave.”
“These were strong reasons, doubtless,” said Conway, dryly.