"I may go yet someday," said Wenny.
"But think," Fanshaw shuddered. "Think of handling frozen ropes in a wind like this." He thought of gritty ropes cutting through gloves and flesh, ripping the calloused flesh of men's palms. That story of Jack London's he had read years ago. It must have been that that put it in his head, the sight of blood on ice-jagged, tarry ropes.
The harbor was wide bright silver, tarnished where the wind made catspaws. One tug steamed seaward, cutting into the wind with a white rustle of foam about a bluff, grimy bow, dragging long coils of brown smoke. They were standing beside some piles at the end of the wharf.
"I have my chance now," said Wenny. "The bust-up was complete this time."
"How do you mean?" Fanshaw and Nan said in unison.
"My chance to go to sea ... I've broken off relations ... with my relations ... Bad pun, isn't it?"
"You mean you had a row with them?" said Fanshaw. "I can understand that. Poor mother and I nearly came to blows.... It's the holiday spirit. Christmas is a dreadful time. Don't you think so, Nan?"
"I like Christmas," said Wenny.
"But Wenny, you said complete." Nan put a hand on his arm.
"I mean it. I shall never have anything to do with them again... I never have rows."