“It was a very funny joke—whatever it was?”
“It was rude of me to laugh, I know,” said Betty. “But I really couldn’t help it.”
“‘Really couldn’t help it,’” repeated Brack mockingly. “A matter of temperament. Typical of the American young woman—to giggle at big moments. I shall cure you of giggling. You may go now.”
“‘May go!’” stormed George. “That’s insolent, cappy. What do you mean?”
“I give you permission to go.”
“Well, hang you for your impudence!”
“Careful, Chanler. I might change my mind.”
“Let me assure you, captain, that that would make no difference,” I interposed. The pistol inside my shirt was pressing my ribs and I smiled with the confidence it gave me. “We will go when we wish, no matter what your mind on the subject may be.”
For the second time in a few minutes his eyes bored into mine, seeking to read my thoughts.
“So you have a hidden ace somewhere, somehow, eh, Pitt?” he laughed. “I see that plainly; but I can’t quite see what it is. You’re growing, Pitt. One of your ancestors must have been a man. Ah! Barry’s rifle—what did you do with it?”