“You don’t add that he is an excellent auctioneer?”
“No; that he is not, I am sorry to say; he is a very bad one.”
“Yet it is the occupation which he has himself selected. Does that show such remarkable talent? Now you, with your mining—” She stopped.
“I didn’t select mining,” answered Paul, roughly, “and I’m not particularly good at it; I took what I could get, that’s all.”
They had now reached the forward deck. Two men belonging to the crew were sitting on a pile of rope; above, patrolling the small upper platform, was the officer in charge; they could not see him, but they could hear his step. To get to the bow, they walked as it were up hill; they reached the sharp point, and looked down over the high, smooth sides which were cutting the deep water so quietly. Eve’s glance turned to the splendid aurora quivering and shining above.
“This T. P. Mayhew is an excellent boat,” remarked Paul, who was still looking over the sides. “But, as to that, all the N. T. boats are good.”
“N. T.?”
“Northern Transportation.” He gave a slight yawn.
“Tell me about your iron,” said Eve, quickly. (“Oh, he will go in! he is going in!” was her thought.)
“It isn’t mine—I wish it was; I’m only manager.”