“She shall—AS LONG AS SHE'S AT THIS TABLE. Is that real plain and understandable, or shall I write it down?”
There was an icy clearness in the captain's tone which seemed to freeze further conversation on the part of Mr. Smith. He merely grunted and ate his breakfast in silence. He ate a great deal and ate it rapidly.
Bos'n departed for school when the meal was over. Captain Cy helped her on with her coat and hood. Then, as he always did of late, he kissed her good-by.
“Hi!” called Mr. Smith from the sitting room. “Ain't I in on that? If there's any kisses goin' I want to take a hand before the deal's over.”
“Must I?” whispered Bos'n pleadingly. “Must I, Uncle Cy? I don't want to. I don't like him.”
“Come on!” called Mr. Smith. “I'm gettin' over my bashfulness fast. Hurry up!”
“Must I kiss him, Uncle Cyrus?” whispered Bos'n. “MUST I?”
“No!” snapped the captain sharply. “Trot right along now, dearie. Be a good girl. Good-by.”
He entered the sitting room. His guest had found the Sunday box and was lighting one of his host's cigars.
“Well,” he inquired easily, “what's next on the bill? Anything goin' on in this forsaken hole?”