“I didn’t catch the first of it,” said Hawke. “I believe that little ass accused Henninger of being a notorious card-sharper, or something of the sort. The second mate happened to be there, and he heard their stories, and I expect they’ve gone to the captain now.”
The curious quality of Elliott’s regard for Henninger is sufficiently indicated by the fact that at this information he was filled simultaneously with indignant rage and wonder whether the thing were true. He put the question directly to Hawke, who shrugged his shoulders.
“Henninger is absolutely the best poker player I ever saw,” he replied. “He’s better even than Sullivan, and no man can be as good a player as that without being suspected of crookedness. Of course, I don’t know all Henninger’s adventures, but I’d stake anything that he’s as straight as a string. He’s too thoroughbred a sport.”
The little blond man presently returned to the smoking-room alone, but Henninger did not reappear. Elliott waited for fifteen or twenty minutes, and then went on deck.
The spaces were all deserted, and the electric lights shone on empty chairs. It was a clear night, and the big funnels loomed against the sky, rolling out volumes of black smoke. As he walked slowly aft, he saw a man leaning over the quarter, looking down at the boiling wake streaked with phosphorescence. It looked like Henninger; drawing nearer, he saw that he was not mistaken.
“How’d it come out, old man?” inquired Elliott, sympathetically. “Hawke and I would have backed you up if you had only let us. It’s an outrage—”
“Will you shut up your infernal mouth—and get away from here!” Henninger interrupted, in a voice of such savage and suppressed fury that Elliott was absolutely stupefied for a moment.
Startled and offended, he turned on his heel and walked forward nearly to the bows, and for a moment he was almost as angry as Henninger had been. He leaned over the rail and frowned at the creaming water. Perhaps he had been tactless,—but he could not forgive the ferocious rebuff that his sympathy had received. But as he stood there, the cool and calm of the mid-sea night began to work insensibly upon his temper, and he began to take a more lenient view of the offence. Glancing aft, he saw that Henninger had vanished. There was no one anywhere in sight but the officer on the bridge and a lookout on the forecastle-head; and no sound but the labouring beat of the propellers.
He remained there for some time, for he heard eight bells struck, and the changing of the watch. Presently a hand touched his shoulder lightly.
“Here, old chap, smoke this,” said Henninger, thrusting a large cigar wrapped in silver foil into his hand. “I was rude to you just now, but you came on me at a bad moment. Forgive me, won’t you?”