“It ought to encourage you because she is trying to help you!”
“Be still!” he roared. “You don't know what you're talking about. Help me! There are women who can help a man—do help a man, every turn he makes. There are other women who keep kicking him down into damnation even when they think they are helping. I'm not going to stay here any longer. I mustn't stay, Polly. I'll be saying things worse than what I have said. What I said about women doesn't refer to you! You are true and good, and I envy that man, whoever he is.”
He started down the slope toward the beach.
“Are you going back to the wreck?” she asked, plaintively.
“To the wreck!”
“But wait!” She could not control either her feelings or her voice.
“I can't wait. I don't dare to stay another minute!”
She called again and he halted at a little distance and faced her. He was absolutely savage in demeanor and tone.
“Remember what I said about her! Don't insult my common sense! She is—Oh, no matter!” He shook his fists again and went on his way.
She stood on the hillside and watched him row out to the little schooner. And through her tears she did not know whether he waved salute to her with those poor, work-worn hands, or again shook his fists. He made some sort of a flourish over the rail of the quarter-deck. The grieving and mystified girl was somberly certain that his troubles had touched Mayo's wits.