"What a chicken it is, to be sure. My boy, that station is run, in the old man's absence, by his daughter Esther—young, winsome, impulsive, and impressionable. A rare combination. We visit it in this way. As near as I can calculate it is half a mile across the strait, so we swim it. I am nearly drowned, you save my life. You leave me on the beach, and go up to the house for assistance. Arriving there you ask to see her, tell your story, touch her heart. She takes us in, nurses me; I sing your praises; we remain until the father returns—after that permanently."
"You don't mean to tell me you think all that humbug is likely to succeed?"
"If it's well enough done, certainly!"
"And hasn't it struck you that so much deception is playing it rather low down upon the girl?"
"It will be playing it still lower down upon us if it doesn't succeed. It's our last chance, remember. We must do it or starve. You've grown very squeamish all of a sudden."
"I don't like acting a lie."
"Since when? Look here, my dear fellow, you're getting altogether too good for this world. You almost take me in. Last night, before I grew too drunk to chronicle passing events, I heard you tell one of the most deliberate, cold-blooded lies any man ever gave utterance to—and, what was worse, for no rhyme or reason as far as I could see."
"You have no right to talk to me like this!"
"Very probably that's why I do it. Another of my habits. But forgive me; don't let us quarrel on the eve of an enterprise of such importance. Are you going into it with me or not?"
"Since you are bent on it, of course! You know that."