“You're a different sort than when you went away, Ross,” said Jerry.
“Right you are,” answered Wilbur.
“But I will venture a prophecy,” continued Jerry, looking keenly at him.
“Ross, you are a born-and-bred city man. It's in the blood of you and the bones of you. I'll give you three years for this new notion of yours to wear itself out. You think just now you're going to spend the rest of your life as an amateur buccaneer. In three years, at the outside, you'll be using your 'loot,' as you call it, or the interest of it, to pay your taxes and your tailor, your pew rent and your club dues, and you'll be what the biographers call 'a respectable member of the community.'”
“Did you ever kill a man, Jerry?” asked Wilbur. “No? Well, you kill one some day—kill him in a fair give-and-take fight—and see how it makes you feel, and what influence it has on you, and then come back and talk to me.”
It was long after midnight. Wilbur rose.
“We'll ring for a boy,” said Ridgeway, “and get you a room. I can fix you out with clothes enough in the morning.”
Wilbur stared in some surprise, and then said:
“Why, I've got the schooner to look after. I can't leave those coolies alone all night.”
“You don't mean to say you're going on board at this time in the morning?”