During the meal, toward the end of it, one of the crew entered. He was young—in the early twenties. The manner in which he saluted convinced Dennison that the fellow had recently been in the United States Navy.
“Mr. Cunningham’s compliments, sir. Canvas 150 has been rigged on the port promenade and chairs and rugs set out.”
Another salute and he was off.
“Well, that’s decent enough,” was Dennison’s comment. “That chap has been in the Navy. It’s all miles over my head, I’ll confess. Cunningham spoke of a joke when I accosted him in the chart house last night.”
“You went up there?” cried Jane.
“Yes. And among other things he said that every man is entitled to at least one good joke. What the devil can he mean by that?”
Had he been looking at his father Dennison would have caught a fleeting, grim, shadowy smile on the strong mouth.
“You will find a dozen new novels on the shelves, Miss Norman,” said Cleigh as he rose. “I’ll be on deck. I generally walk two or three miles in the morning. Let us hang together this day to test the scalawag’s promise.”
“Mr. Cleigh, when you spoke of reparation last night, you weren’t thinking in monetary terms, were you?”
Cleigh’s brows lowered a trifle, but it was the effect of puzzlement.