“As soon as ever I can get a priest off to the old Sarah,” replied Ratcliffe.
“That is your last word?”
“Yes.”
“Very well,” said Skelton. His manner changed. He had done what he could: it was useless. Ratcliffe was no relation of his, and now, contemplating the thing with as much detachment as though it were a losing horse race or boxing encounter on which he had no bet, he lit the cigar, which he had been holding unlighted in his fingers, and became almost amiable.
“Very well,” said he, “go ahead. After all, it’s not my affair; but I’ll be interested to know how you get on. By the way, I have some gear of yours on board.”
“Take it back, will you, like a good chap,” said the other, “and leave it with the yacht people at Southampton? I’ll pick it up there when I return.”
“You are coming back?”
“Oh, rather; but not for a year or so, maybe. I’ve a lot to do, and when you see us next maybe you’ll agree—” He stopped short and relit his cigar, and they hung silent, each engaged in his own thoughts.
Now; on the warm sea-scented air entering through the open ports, came a voice.
It was the voice of the second officer, addressing someone overside.