“You should have made a good husband, Jack,” said his mate, in a softened tone.
“Ah, well, perhaps I should,” said Mitchell, rubbing up his tobacco; then he asked abstractedly: “What sort of a husband did you make, Joe?”
“I might have made a better one than I did,” said Joe seriously, and rather bitterly, “but I know one thing, I'm going to try and make up for it when I go back this time.”
“We all say that,” said Mitchell reflectively, filling his pipe. “She loves you, Joe.”
“I know she does,” said Joe.
Mitchell lit up.
“And so would any man who knew her or had seen her letters to you,” he said between the puffs. “She's happy and contented enough, I believe?”
“Yes,” said Joe, “at least while I was there. She's never easy when I'm away. I might have made her a good deal more happy and contented without hurting myself much.”
Mitchell smoked long, soft, measured puffs.
His mate shifted uneasily and glanced at him a couple of times, and seemed to become impatient, and to make up his mind about something; or perhaps he got an idea that Mitchell had been “having” him, and felt angry over being betrayed into maudlin confidences; for he asked abruptly: