At bedtime, he stepped across into Florio’s little room.
“News for you,” he began quietly, and continued in an undertone. Florio’s hard gray eyes watched him sharply across the candle flame, with a look which meant, if anything, impatient anger.
An explosive whisper was the only comment: “Damn the coolie!” Pocketing his big fists with one energetic shove, the sailor stared down at the floor.
“Thanks all the same, of course,” he said moodily. “Quite right. That’s the chap I was afraid might turn up. Thanks. Don’t speak of him to anybody else, till I say so, will you? Not a word? That’s right.”
He sat down on his bed, and unwound his leggings, neatly, methodically, as though the affair were dropped.
In some surprise, Miles continued it.
“Then I’ll do my turns to-night, and afterward—the lamps.”
“Eh?” The sailor looked up, half startled, half chagrined. “What’s that?—Oh,” he smiled indulgently, “not much! Get to bed, boy. What, I’m not afraid of that swine! Alone, isn’t he? Let me lay aboard him once, that’s all! Can catch! No, I won’t hear a word of it. Your watch below. To bed!”
By no persuasion would he forego his self-set labor, or accept company, even for the single night. “Dear chap, I have some pride,” he reiterated; and as he offered no confidences, Miles left him with disappointment. Yet his cool, stubborn attitude seemed, in a way, admirable; and—to judge from deep, contented breathing, across the corridor—he slept like a child.
Somewhere after midnight, Miles woke uneasily. Long security had broken the habit; but now he sat up once more, to watch the distant light of Tony’s lantern jerking in fitful eclipse among the firs. Near the second tower it disappeared, as usual; and as usual, after a short pause shining out again, returned down river, skipping and winking.