He drawled the last word with maddening emphasis.
Rosalind was in despair. It was not fear of the dog—now. She knew that Sam would not dare to let the animal attack, even if she descended from her refuge. It was fear of the boatman's mocking eyes. He was smiling. What would he do when she, Rosalind, the dignified, began the scramble that must precede her arrival at terra firma?
Dignity scarcely sat with her on the limb, even now; it would be a thousand miles away when she made the first decisive move. It was a sense of dignity wholly that restrained Rosalind. She did not care particularly about her ankles; she was not ashamed of them and had no reason to be. But she was bitterly resolved that she would cling to the very end to whatever shred of haughty poise remained to her.
Temper loosed her tongue again.
"Thief! Smuggler!" she exclaimed. "They'll make short work of you when I'm free from this."
"Well, we're all little pals together," he observed serenely.
"Spy!"
"Say, that was a funny one, wasn't it?" he said, brightening. "Me und Schmidt—spies! That was one you never even thought of, ma'am."
"Will you stop calling me 'ma'am'?"
"Excuse me. I was only trying to be respectful. What do you want me to call you—Rosie?"