“The canvas bags contain all the clothes you’ll need. Look through them and see what you think of the outfit. Your father selected them.”
“But my cigarettes! I packed them in one of the trunks!”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to do without them. You’ll find you can shoot straighter if you don’t smoke. Cigarettes knock a fellow’s nerves all out, you know.”
“This is rum!” exclaimed the angry lad. “No cigarettes! Well, I’ll go down and see the stuff.”
“You’d better put on one of the warm suits you’ll find in your bags, Paul,” suggested Remington. “We’re getting out to sea, and it’ll be chilly on deck.”
Paul vouchsafed no reply, but he profited by the advice, and donned a complete new outfit of clothing suited to his surroundings.
“Look like a dago laborer, don’t I?” he asked Remington, whom he met at his stateroom door half an hour later.
“You look comfortably dressed,” was the reply. “You see I’ve adopted similar clothes.”
“You do look funny,” laughed Paul, “and that’s the way I feel. Mother would have a fit if she saw me now,” glancing down at his flannel shirt and heavy trousers and shoes. “Mr. Remington,” he continued, hesitatingly, “I—I want to apologize for what I said about the trunks and cigarettes. I can get on without cigarettes if they’d spoil my shooting.”
“That’s all right, Paul. They certainly would spoil your shooting.”