“Man?”
“No.”
“Women,” mused Stubbs, “is strange. Can’t never lay your hand on a woman. Here they are an’ here they ain’t. I had a woman once’t. Yes, I had a woman once’t.”
He relapsed into a long silence and Wilson studied 120 him with friendlier interest than before. Life was written large upon his wrinkled face, but the eyes beneath the heavy brows redeemed many of the bitter lines. It was clear that the man had lived much within himself in spite of his long rubbing against the world. He was a man, Wilson thought, who could warn men off, or welcome them in, at will.
“Maybe,” he resumed, “maybe you’ll come an’ maybe you won’t. Come if you wanter.”
“Where to?”
“To Choco Bay. Can’t promise you nothin’ but a berth to the port,––good pay an’ a damned rough time after you get there. Maybe your throat cut in the end.”
“I’ll go,” said Wilson, instantly.
The gray eyes brightened.
“Now I ain’t promised you nothin’, have I, but to git you to the coast?”