“You must quit them, Boyd. It's for my sake. You must help my father. They are wretches. Think of what it will mean to you if you can help us! You will do it. Promise me!”
He did not reply.
“Do you dare to hesitate for one moment—when I ask you—for my sake?”
“That's my last word,” bawled Captain Wass. “There's no blackmail about it—we're only taking back what's our own.”
“Are you one of those—creatures?” she asked, indignantly.
If she had shown one spark of sympathy or real understanding in that crisis of their affairs, if she had not been so much, in that moment, the daughter of Julius Marston, counseling selfishness, he might have fatuously continued to coddle his romance, in spite of all that had preceded. But her eyes were hard. Her voice had the money-chink in it. He started, like a man awakened. His old cap had fallen on the carpet. He picked it up.
“Good-by!” he said. “I have found out where I belong in this world.”
And in that unheroic fashion ended something which, so he then realized, should never have been begun. He followed Captain Wass across the saloon.
“Better advise your buckos to be careful how they handle them grate-bars,” shouted Captain Wass. “I'm loaded, and if I'm joggled I'm liable to explode.”
They were not molested when they left the yacht. The doryman who had brought Captain Wass rowed them to the wharf.