He looked at her a minute. Then he looked away to the horizon. “There can’t be two captains on a boat,” he said dryly—“I didn’t mean to hurt you—I had to speak quick.”
She did not reply. She did not look at him again—not even when he helped her into the dory and rowed her ashore.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he repeated, as he held up his hand to help her from the boat. She leaped to the beach. “I wish I’d never gone with you.” She stamped her little foot on the sand. “I’ll never go again—never, never—not as long as I live!” She turned her back on him and walked toward the fish-house.
He looked after her, a curious glint in his eye. Then he looked at his boat, riding at anchor, and the look changed subtly, “You needn’t worry,” he said softly—but not too softly to reach the pink ears—“You needn’t worry, Miss Celia—there will never be but one captain on a boat.”
She opened the door into the fish-house and took her pan and went up the rocky path without a look behind her.
XXIII
A NDY stepped up the road, a sombre look in his face. Now and then he cast an eye at the mouth of the harbor where the mackerel fleet sailed. Then he strode on with stately step. He had been fishing for a week and had caught nothing—twice his net had been hung up on the rocks and yesterday the dog-fish had run it through—and Harr’et’s temper was worn thin.... He looked his grievance at the horizon.
Harriet had been firm. If he could not fish, he should paint, and Bodet was offering three-fifty a day. She had rented the boat, over his head—his boat—and she had talked about Jonah, and had sent him out of the house—with his paint brushes!