“I'll probably have a chance to see you when we come here again,” called Mayo from the wharf, looking down into the mournful countenance of the skipper. “Perhaps I'll have time to run down to Maquoit while we are discharging. At any rate, explain it all for me, especially to your daughter.”
“I'll tell all concerned just what's right,” Captain Candage assured him. “I'll tell her for you.”
She was on the beach when the skipper came rowing in alone from the Ethel and May.
“He's gone,” he called to her. “Of course we couldn't keep him. He's too smart to stay on a job like this.”
When they were on their way up to the widow's cottage he stole side-glances at her, and her silence distressed him.
“Let's see! He says to me—if I can remember it right-he says, says he, 'Take my best respects and '—let's see—yes, 'take my best respects and love to your Polly—'”
“Father! Please don't fib.”
“It's just as I remember it, dear. 'Especial,' he says. I remember that! 'Especial,' he says. And he looked mighty sad, dear, mighty sad.” He put his arm about her. “There are a lot of sad things in this world for everybody, Polly. Sometimes things get so blamed mixed up that I feel like going off and climbing a tree!”