“Mr. Cyrus P. Harding,” said Appleby. “What can I do for you?”
The man laughed pleasantly. “That is rather what I should ask you. Anyway, I want to thank you for the help you rendered my daughter.”
Appleby made a little whimsical gesture. “The conventional answer fits the case. It was nothing, sir.”
“Well,” said Harding dryly, “it would have been a good deal to me if my girl had gone out over the rail.”
“I don’t think that could have happened.”
Harding nodded, but the twinkle snowed more plainly in his eyes. “I don’t either, but I guess you were not quite sure of it then, and there are men who would have made the most of the thing. I understand you got between her and the rail, anyway, and that is what gave you the bruise on the head.”
“I’m glad I had so much sense. I have, however, had more serious bruises, and may get them again. I hope Miss Harding is none the worse.”
“No,” said Harding. “She seems quite pleased with herself. It’s an adventure, and she likes them. She will thank you to-morrow, and I don’t want to intrude on you. Still, you haven’t told me what to call you, and I hope to see more of you.”
Appleby was a young man, and the fall against the rail had shaken him, or his answer would have been more prompt and decided.
“Walthew Broughton,” he said.