It began to be awkward for Pats. But he resolved to suppress any outward manifestations of that state. This task was all the harder, as 56his legs embarrassed him. He knew them to be thin,–of a thinness that was startling and unprecedented,–and now, as he confronted the northeast wind, their shrunken and ridiculous outlines were cruelly exposed. He was sensitive about these members, and he thought she had glanced furtively in their direction. However, with his usual buoyancy he continued:
“And now we leave land behind us until we reach the northern shore of the Gulf.”
“Yes?”
Although she gazed pensively over the water, and with conspicuous amiability, something seemed to suggest that the present conversation had reached a natural end. So the skeleton moved away.
With Pats a hint was enough. During the remainder of the voyage, at meals, and the few occasions on which he met the lady, he also was genial and outwardly undisturbed; but he took every care that she should be subjected to no annoyance from his companionship. This outward calmness, however, bore no resemblance to his inward tribulation. Such was his desire for her good opinion that this sudden plunge from favor to disgrace–or at least, to a frigid toleration–brought a keen distress. Moreover, he 57was mortified at having allowed himself, under any pretext, to jeer at her religion.
“Ass, ass! Impossible ass!” he muttered a dozen times that day.
Meanwhile, the Maid of the North was driving steadily along, always to the north and east. On the morning of the second day her passengers had caught glimpses, to the larboard, of the shores of Nova Scotia. Later they rounded Cape Breton, and then, against a howling wind and a choppy sea, headed north into the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The Maid of the North was a sturdy boat, and though she pitched and tossed in a way that disarranged the mechanism of her passengers, she did nothing to destroy their confidence.
It was the evening of this last day of the voyage, when Pats, feeling the need of companionship in his misery, descended for a final interview with Solomon. Through a dismal part of the steamer he groped his way, until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Solomon heard his step and knew him from afar. He whined, pulled hard at his chain, and stood up on his hind legs, waving his front ones in excited welcome.
“There is somebody glad to see me, anyway,” 58 thought Pats, as he sat on an anchor bar with the dog’s head between his knees. There had always been more or less conversation between these two: not that Solomon understood the exact meaning of all the words, but he did thoroughly understand that trust and affection formed the bulk of the sentiments expressed. And these things being the basis of Solomon’s character rendered him a sympathetic and grateful listener. The monologue, address, oration, confidence–or whatever–was delivered in a low tone, accompanied by strokings of the listener’s head, taps, friendly pinches, and wandering of fingers about the ears.
“Bad place for a dog, old chap. Lots of motion here, and smells, but ’twill soon be over. So cheer up. Any way, you are lots better off than I am. In a single interview I have secured the contempt of an exceptionally fine woman. Yes, your Pats has done well.”