“Forgive me, captain; it’s not polite of me, but—but, oh! If you could only see yourself as I see you now!”
Brack stood and glared, dumfounded, impotent. His arms slowly fell to his sides; he drew back. On his face there was the amazement and anger of a schoolmaster outfaced by a pupil.
“Huh-huh! What’s this?” he snorted. “It’s very funny, no doubt, but—explain—explain!”
“That’s just what you may do, cappy,” said Chanler, stepping through the doorway. “Hello, Betty. Everything all right, and all that?”
One thing stood out in that room as we entered, and that was the swift play of expression on Betty’s face as she beheld Chanler. First, it was surprise, then incredulity, then glad relief. And I read in her eyes that she was glad that George once more was fit, so she could care for him again.
“Why, George!” she cried. “You—you’re sober!”
Brack’s sharp laughter filled the room. He had recovered his poise; he was the captain again.
“Yes. A great surprise; so unusual for Mr. Chanler,” he said; but his eyes were studying me.
“Cappy, I’m through with you,” said Chanler. “You’re a dear, interesting fellow, but this—this is too much, you know. You’re fired.”
The captain laughed again, but not for an instant did his eyes leave me. He was trying to bore into my mind, trying to learn what he wished to know without resorting to questioning words.