Jane shut her eyes, and Dennison opened a novel. It was good reading, and he became 152 partially absorbed. The sudden creak of a chair brought his glance round. His father had seated himself in the vacant chair.
The phase that dug in and hurt was that his father made no endeavour to avoid him—simply ignored his existence. Seven years and not a crack in the granite! He laid the book on his knees and stared at the rocking horizon.
One of the crew passed. Cleigh hailed him.
“Send Mr. Cleve to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
The air and the tone of the man were perfectly respectful.
When Cleve, the first officer, appeared his manner was solicitous.
“Are you comfortable, sir?”
“Would ten thousand dollars interest you?” said Cleigh, directly.
“If you mean to come over to your side, no. My life wouldn’t be worth a snap of the thumb. You know something about Dick Cunningham. I know him well. The truth is, Mr. Cleigh, we’re off on a big gamble, and if we win out ten thousand wouldn’t interest me. Life on board will be exactly as it was before you put into Shanghai. More I am not at liberty to tell you.”