Wetherbee continued aware of it.
"Just my little device for holding your attention," explained the newcomer, between a cough and a snuffle, the remnant of polite affectation. "I thought it out very carefully."
"Ho! You did?" queried Wetherbee.
"You used to be such a damnably abrupt sort of person yourself."
"Ho! Did I?"
"Even then. Even then, when we sat under the same pulpit—such time as you found it socially expedient to attend—it was a matter of grave doubt to me whether you took any real benefit. You were always a poor listener, Mr.—ah—Wetherbee. Whereas I—I was chosen deacon that winter, you may remember."
Wetherbee stared into the shaven, haunted face thus preposterously thrust at him across the years. Aside from the unimaginable oddity of the attack, there was cunning and unsettling purpose in it, but he yielded no nerve reaction, no start or outcry; not even a denial. And by this—had he been wise—the other might have taken warning.
"By Jove!" was all his comment.
"We've come a considerable distance," suggested the new arrival.
They looked in curious silence, each measuring that span from the edge of things. Thursday howled on one side of them and on the other wind and the sea, until the humor of it won Wetherbee to a grim chuckle.