The Elder looked questioningly at the seaman as he touched the lighted end of a match to his cigar. “That is true. We––er––are busy, too busy for our own good. We ought to be more sociable here in Little River. We need something to stir us up.”
“We’re too damn selfish, if you ask me. As far as stirring goes, I cal’late we’ve got as much of that as any town along this coast. About all a feller can do is to set his teeth against the hurricane and grin.”
The Elder laughed without restraint, and his visitor began to show signs of uneasiness.
“You’d best be careful with them delicate blood-vessels,” mildly suggested the Captain.
“True, Josiah. But that was a good joke, a very good joke. One can take it in two ways.”
“Not the way I mean it. There’s enough gossip–––”
“Yes, we are too selfish,” broke in the Elder, “and it is too bad. I often think of the time we were kids together. We had our little scraps, made up, and were ready to fight for each other.”
The Captain could recall no occasion when he had fought for Jim Fox.
“How long ago that all seems! Yet how––er––happy were those days. No cares. No sorrows. No troubles. No misunderstandings. Excuse me, Josiah. I don’t know why it is that I hark back like this when we get together. But it does me a world of good.”