“What do you mean, Matt?” he demanded, as if I had accused him.
I looked steadily at him, and I imagine my unshaven jaw did not make my aspect alluring.
“That I'm thinking of driving the rats overboard,” replied I. “The ship's sound, but it would be sounder if there were fewer of them.”
“You don't imagine anything Tom could say would change my feelings toward you?” he pleaded.
“I don't know, and I don't care a damn,” replied I coolly. “But I do know, before the Langdons or anybody else can have Blacklock pie, they'll have first to catch their Blacklock.”
I saw Langdon had made him uneasy, despite his belief in my strength. And he was groping for confirmation or reassurance. “But,” thought I, “if he thinks I may be going up the spout, why isn't he more upset? He probably hates me because I've befriended him, but no matter how much he hated me, wouldn't his fear of being cut off from supplies drive him almost crazy?” I studied him in vain for sign of deep anxiety. Either Tom didn't tell him much, I decided, or he didn't believe Tom knew what he was talking about.
“What did Tom say about me?” I inquired.
“Oh, almost nothing. We were talking chiefly of—of club matters,” he answered, in a fair imitation of his usual offhand manner.
“When does my name come up there?” said I.
He flushed and shifted. “I was just about to tell you,” he stammered. “But perhaps you know?”