Mr. Percival, still beaming, again looked at the sailor appealingly.
“You can tell it to me,” said the latter, furtively glancing to the right and left before making the concession.
Looking straight into the sailor's eyes, Percival said:
“Yes, Miss Clinton. I had four dances with you,—and a lemon squash.”
“Wait a moment, Aunt Julia,” protested the young lady, holding back. “Would you mind telling me, Mr. Percival, how you happen to be here and in this plight? You didn't mention sailing on the Doraine.”
Mr. Percival, to the sailor: “Neither did you, Miss Clinton. You certainly are no more surprised than I am.”
“Why are you on board as a stowaway? Phil Morton told me you belong to an old Baltimore family and had all kinds of—that is, you were quite well-off.”
Mr. Percival, to the sailor: “Please don't blush, Miss Clinton. I'm not the least bit sensitive. Money isn't everything. I seem to be able to get along without it. Later on, I hope to have the opportunity to explain just why—”
“That'll do,” interrupted the sailor. “Here comes the Captain.”
Captain Trigger hove in sight around the corner of the deck building, with Chief Engineer Gray and the Second Officer.