“She’s coming up to the wharves,” said Silas. “They steer by the spire of St. Philips, the line between there and Fort Sumpter is all deep water. How’d you like to be a sailor?”
“Wouldn’t mind,” said Phyl.
“How’d you like to take a boat—I mean a decent sized fishing yawl and go off round the world, or even down Florida way? Florida’s fine, you don’t know Florida, it’s got two coasts and it’s hard to tell which is the best. From Indian River right round and up to Cedar Keys there’s all sorts of fishing, and you can camp out on the reefs; one cooks one’s own food and you can swim all day. There’s tarpon and barracuda and sword fish, and nights when there’s a moon you could see to read a book.”
“How jolly!”
“Let’s go there?”
“How do you mean?”
“Oh, just you and I. I’m fed up with everything. We could have a boatman to help sail and steer.”
He spoke lightly and laughingly, and without much enthusiasm and as though he were talking to some one of his own sex, and Phyl, not knowing how to take him, said nothing.
He went on, his tone growing warmer.
“I’m not joking, I’m dead sick of Grangersons and Charleston, and I reckon you are too—aren’t you?”