“Then if he is, I warn you most solemnly to tell him not to interfere with these men, nor to let them know what he’s up to. They’re an awfully rough lot, these fellows. Only the Captain, and Crispin Bean, who’s been captain of the yacht so long, can manage them.”
“The yacht!” cried Freda. “Why, that is used for the smuggling then!”
“Oh, I don’t know that,” answered Dick hastily. “But, but—if you don’t want to hear of any more mysterious deaths and disappearances in the neighbourhood, remember to warn your friend. Now I must go; good-bye.”
He held out his hand abruptly, but withdrew it with a shy laugh before Freda could take it.
“Perhaps you would rather not shake hands with such a rascal.”
“Oh,” said Freda naïvely, as she held out both hers, “that doesn’t matter. For all the men I know seem to be rascals.”
Dick laughed, but did not seem to like this observation. He drew himself up a little, and a variety of emotions seemed to chase each other across his face.
“I’m glad my poor mother isn’t alive to hear me called that,” he said in a low voice.
Freda ran up to him, but stopped herself shyly as she was going to take his hand.
“You used the word first, and I didn’t mean it seriously,” she whispered, in great distress. “You could not think me so ungrateful.”