By one of his sudden changes, his face, without darkening, fell entirely serious.
“Do you know, I never saw before—” He pointed his pipe-stem up at the sombre canvas above the mantel. “The old Commander there—he looks ready to reef, steer, crack a man’s head, or fire a broadside. Good old days, those. Never saw before you looked so much alike. But you must take more on the mother’s side.”
“Maybe,” replied Miles, wondering.
Tony studied them by turns,—the bold, severe face of Hardy’s captain in the picture, the living face below.
“Head o’ the family,” he said at last. “Must be damned odd. All my life, now—If I hadn’t run loose—Strict ideas, strict ideas! Well, what’s the odds? I was only going to say, Miles, you’ve grown up. This last week—that’s it: you’ve grown up.” He rose, with an air of dejection. “You’re right, too, old chap. I understand. I must clear out.”
“We’ll miss you, Tony,” Miles began.
“Ye-es?” drawled the wanderer absently. Forcing a doubtful smile, he surveyed the room. “The time I’ve laid up here—Talk of eye-openers! What a rum thing it is, after all—a home!”
After this it was Miles who proposed delay, and Tony who would not listen.
“No,” he repeated. “You struck it, first time. Quit the game or move out. That’s all fair and square. If I didn’t stand to win or lose—a good slice, too—why, I’d say quit. No! Finish! Come on, old boy, help lug my box downstairs!”
And with the box in the stern of his boat, he shoved off from shore that very afternoon. He had shipped oars, and stretched forward his powerful arms for the first stroke, when suddenly he tossed back a startling farewell.