“It’s a way women have,—lookin’ like that when a man swears off,” replied a young fellow, wriggling uncomfortably. “It kinder puts my eyes out—like it was a lamp turned up too high.”
He winked hard and turned away.
“Ben Trawl! Hello, Trawl! You here? So fond of the minister as this?”
“I like to keep my eye on him,” replied Ben Trawl grimly.
Captain Hap, distributing camp-chairs for the women of the audience, turned and eyed Ben over his shoulder. The Captain’s small, keen eyes held the dignity and the scorn of age and character.
“Shut up there!” he said authoritatively. “The minister’s comin’. Trot back to your grogshop, Ben. This ain’t no place for Judases, nor yet for rummies.”
“Gorry,” laughed a young skipper; “he ain’t got customers enough to okkepy him. They’re all here.”
Now there sifted through the crowd an eager, affectionate whisper.
“There! There’s the preacher. Look that way—See? That tall, thin fellar—him with the eyes.”