“But you’re with me that it was bum match-making?”
I nodded.
“And that a right guy—you know what I mean: a guy who was right all the way through—couldn’t get any fun out of watching it?”
I nodded again. Pierce placed both hands on the railing, running his fingers up and down as if on a keyboard, whistling softly through his teeth.
“Did you notice how the boss ate it up?” he said abruptly.
“Mr. Chanler?”
“Yep. He eyed it like—like it was a pretty little thing to him.”
I said nothing. Pierce resumed his whistling and finger-practise on the rail. Suddenly he turned and faced me squarely, his countenance uncomfortably serious, as it had been on the dock that morning.
“I suppose you’re thinking what an awful dub I am to be making a crack about the boss to one of his friends, ain’t you, Mr. Pitt?”
“Well, to be frank,” I replied, “I have been wondering at your doing so. How do you know that I won’t go straight to Mr. Chanler with your words? I won’t do it, of course, but I would prefer that you do not discuss Mr. Chanler with me. One doesn’t do such things, you know.”