"I don't want to spoil your appetite," said Riggs.
"Of course, Mr. Trego needs those things, as he is—"
"A passenger," said Trego, giving the captain a quick glance.
"A passenger," said Riggs blankly. "To be sure, a passenger. Now, Mr.
Meeker, I wish you would say a grace, if it pleases you."
Meeker bowed his head and mumbled something which I could not make out; besides, I was much more interested in a little byplay between Captain Riggs and Trego, which began as soon as Meeker and I had piously cast our eyes downward.
It was a signal conveyed by Trego to the captain, in which he cautioned him to silence about something, by putting his finger to his lips, as if some subject were tabooed. Riggs nodded as if he understood. Before Meeker had finished, Trego looked at him and scowled, to convey to the captain that he did not like the missionary.
"The weather is going to be fine from the way it looks now," said Riggs, in an altered tone, as if he wanted to shift the conversation into more congenial lines. "I trust we will all do our best to stay up to the weather in that respect—quick passage and good company keeps everybody on good terms and in good spirits," he added significantly.
Then he began giving us the stock-jokes of the China Sea and telling stories of his younger days, when he had better commands than the old Kut Sang. He was a bluff but likable old sea-dog, but I saw that he observed Meeker closely as he talked, and I knew that he was none too well taken with him.
So the meal went on well enough. Night had fallen upon us with tropical swiftness, and a cooling breeze was blowing through the open ports, charged with the salt tang of the sea. The Kut Sang was humming along, and there was a soothing murmur through the ancient tub as she shouldered the gentle swells of the bay.
The saloon was cozy and we dallied at table, chiefly because we did not like to leave while Riggs was telling his stories, although I would have preferred my cigar on deck.