"Captain lost his wife, didn't he?" I asked, moving my chair to make room.
"No—never had one." He leaned forward and filled one of the empty cups. "Why did you think so?"
"Well, more from the tone of his voice than anything else. Some trouble about it, wasn't there?"
"There was. His sweetheart was burned to death ten years ago—lamp got upset." These men are direct in their speech. It comes from their life-long habit of giving short, crisp, meaning orders. He had reached for the sugar now, and was dropping the lumps slowly into his cup.
"That explains it, then," I answered. "We were talking about the bird over there, and he said a man must have something to love, being without wife or children, and then I told him a big man like himself, I should think, would rather have a dog—"
The first officer put down his cup, jerked his body around, and said, his blue eyes looking into mine:
"You didn't say that, did you?"
I nodded my head.
"Mighty sorry. Don't any of us talk to him of his dog. What did he say?"
"Nothing. Turned a little pale, got up, and went out."