"All right, Jerry," said Dennis hastily. "Beat it before the skipper comes back."
The boy fled. Dennis looked at the flushed hurt face of Florence.
"Give me—to that man!" she said faintly. "Oh! It—it's impossible——"
"Right, old girl—it's quite impossible." Dennis made a gesture of caution, as he heard the sound of steps from the passage. "You leave it to me, that's all. I'm sorry you heard that, Florence; but it'll be all right. Better take that pipe from your father, or we'll forget it. Eight bells just struck and we'd better run along to dinner."
The skipper entered, with a smiling nod and a twirl of his moustache.
"Unalaska day after to-morrow, if the wind hold," he announced, his deep-set eyes flitting from face to face as if seeking secrets there. "All's well?"
"All well and hungry, skipper." Dennis turned to the door. "Coming?"
"Not for five minutes. I want to jot down these figures and work out our position."
During the meal which ensued, Tom Dennis marvelled at the manner in which Florence maintained her cool poise, with never a token to indicate the terrific ordeal to which she had so lately been subjected. And little Jerry, his moon-face white and frightened, served the table with an occasional adoring glance at the girl; the danger from Jerry was palpably eliminated.
To dare risk further conversation with Miles Hathaway would be unadvisable, Dennis realized. Discussing the matter with Florence that afternoon, he found all traces of excitement gone from her; she was coolly alert, and much better poised than was Dennis himself. Fury was so deep and strong within him that it was difficult for him to restrain his passion; but Florence had become quite cool and dispassionate.