HIS WORD OF HONOR
The old man said nothing at all, as Hal drew near, but only peered at him from under those white-thatched brows of his, with eyes of stern reproach. This still further quickened Hal’s apprehension and blew to a kindling fire the glowing embers of venomous ill-humor.
For all his swagger, Hal could not bring himself to look the captain in the eye. Hands in pockets, cigarette in lips, he came close and stood there; and with defiant surliness on his tanned face managed to say:
“Well, gramp, what now? Getting ready to pan me properly, are you? If so, when ready, Gridley, you can fire!”
“Hal,” answered the old man, “that’s the last impertinence you’re ever going to utter to me! So remember. Sit down and answer my questions.”
“I can take it standing, all right!” said Hal, defiant still.
“I said, sit down, sir!”
Making no answer this time, the boy hulked his surly way toward the ancient, flat-topped tomb, the granite slab of which—supported on six stone pillars—bore the name “Amalfi Briggs.”
“Not there, sir!” exclaimed the captain sternly. “Have you no respect for either dead or living? Here on this bench beside me! Sit down, I tell you!”
Hal slouched down beside his grandfather, his huge shoulders sagging. A strange resemblance grew visible between these two—young man and old; black-haired and white.