The groom's voice sank to an angry whisper.
"Are you going to do what I tell you or not?"
"Not," said Farallone.
"I'll"—the groom's voice loudened—his eye sought an ally in mine. But I turned my face away and pretended that I had not seen or heard. There had been born in my breast suddenly a cold unreasoning fear of Farallone and of what he might do to us weaklings. I heard no more words and, venturing a look, saw that the groom was seating himself once more by the bride.
"If you sit on the other side of her," said Farallone, "you'll keep the sun off her head."
He turned his bold eyes on me and winked one of them. And I was so taken by surprise that I winked back and could have kicked myself for doing so.
II
Farallone helped the bride to her feet. "That's right," he said with a kind of nursely playfulness, and he turned to the groom.
"Because I told you to help yourself," he said, "doesn't mean that I'm not going to do the lion's share of everything. I am. I'm fit. You and the writer man aren't. But you must do just a little more than you're able, and that's all we'll ask of you. Everybody works this voyage except the woman."