"You say your sweetheart, what's her name—Juanita—buried her husband on one of the islands out yonder?" he began, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the Pacific Ocean generally.
I nodded.
"She never before told you she was a widow I believe?"
"Well, all things considered, it was hardly likely she would. What's more, I never asked her."
"How do you know she's not leading you on? How d'you know she doesn't want to get you out to sea, and then collar the whole caboose? It's a pity you're so simple with women, isn't it?"
Thinking this question hardly required an answer, I lit my pipe for something to do, and waited for him to continue. All this time he had never taken his eyes off me, but looked me through and through as if endeavouring to read my very soul. He was evidently revolving some problem in his mind, and it must have been a puzzler, if the expression on his face could be taken as evidence. When he spoke, it was with a purpose.
"Look here, John Ramsay, I like the cut of your jib, or you wouldn't be sitting there opposite me. I'm generally considered an 'old Bob Ridley' to cross, but any man'll tell you I make an up and down good friend. As I say, I've taken a fancy to you, and what's more, I've scraped together a bit of money here and there. Tell me one thing,—are you sure this, what's her outlandish name again—Juanita—is really fond of you?"
"How can I tell? She says she is."
"And you're fool enough to think you can't be happy without her?"
"If it is foolish to think so, I am. What are you driving at?"