He bent above Gerald. He was sound asleep—safe to stay so, indefinitely. Philip stole out, once more turning the key on Gerald, that no intruder should disturb his calm dreams. “Only a rascal with no good to talk about would have chosen such a place!” he could not but think, as he went out from the cabin. The Old Province was progressing very cautiously. The opaque fog was like wool around her, although straight up overhead the moon seemed struggling to show herself in a circle of wan light. The ocean’s swell was much less and the drizzle over. But the night bade fair to stay very thick and to give place to a morning like it. Coming from the lighted cabin, Philip stumbled about over the slippery deck. He caught the sound of a repeated whistle rising, falling, and trilling artistically, that was plainly intended as his guide. “Mr. Hilliard” rose from where he had been lounging along the wet rail.
“Ah,” said he, “you’re here, are you, Touchtone? There seem to be some dry chairs on this heap. Looks as if it was going to stay muggy, don’t it?”
“I’d like to know your business with me as soon as I can,” replied Philip, determined to waste no time, and declining the proffered seat. “I’m not here for my own pleasure, nor because you’ve frightened me into coming to listen. I have found out the trick you tried to play on us yesterday. We spent last night with Mr. Hilliard. So don’t try to go on with that.”
Philip was somewhat surprised at his own daring. But those were the words that came, and I have set them down just as he spoke them.
“O, indeed,” said the other, throwing his cigar over the rail. “Really, I presumed you must have done that by this time. I’d no intention of ‘going on’ with that business, I promise you. You see, Touchtone, I’ve concluded that you are about as sensible and clear-headed a fellow of your age as ever lived! It will be much better for me to be honest and confidential with you than to—well, to try any such little devices as I thought advisable yesterday. To begin, my name isn’t Hilliard, as you know—”
“I should think I did!” ejaculated Philip.
“So you will please call me Mr. Belmont, of New York—John Alexander Belmont, at our mutual service. And, by the bye, Touchtone, I must tell you another thing. I knew your father, Reginald Touchtone, pretty well for a good many years. Surprised, eh? Well, it’s a fact. We came together in—in business, before—before he made a fool of himself by pretending to be better than other people.”
At the mention of his father’s name, from the lips of such a man, Philip started violently. Belmont (for such, in deference to his request, he will be called henceforth here) had forgotten for an instant his self-control in his anger over some past event. But Philip’s own composure was upset by the sneer.
“How dare you speak so of my father!” he exclaimed, indignantly. “You can insult me, but you can’t insult him—to my face. I don’t know who you are yet, nor what you have done. But I know that my father never willingly had a word to say to such a man as you. Not he. As for that matter you hint at, he was as innocent in it as—as Gerald Saxton!”
Taken aback at the boy’s honest anger and courage, Belmont uttered an exclamation. Forgetful of the likelihood of being overheard, he began, excitedly, “Gerald Saxton! Ah, yes, now you’ve brought me to the point! It’s about him I propose to talk to you, you impudent young scamp. First of all, that boy has got to come at once into my hands.”