The girl paused at the chamber door. “You won't have to unbutton my waist now,” she said. “This is my other one and it ain't that kind.”
The door closed. The captain, without looking at his friends, led the way to the dining room.
“Come on out here,” he whispered. “We can talk better here.”
Naturally, they wanted to know all about the girl, who she was and where she came from. Captain Cy told as much of the history of the affair as he thought necessary.
“Poor young one,” he concluded, “she landed on to me in the rain, soppin' wet, and ha'f sick. I COULDN'T turn her out then—nobody could. Course it's an everlastin' outrage on me and the cheekiest thing ever I heard of, but what could I do? I was fixed a good deal like an English feller by the name of Gatenby that I used to know in South America. He woke up in the middle of the night and found a boa constrictor curled on the foot of his bed. Next day, when a crowd of us happened in, there was Gatenby, white as a sheet, starin' down at the snake, and it sound asleep. 'I didn't invite him,' he says, 'but he looked so bloomin' comf'table I 'adn't the 'eart to disturb 'im.' Same way with me; the child seemed so comf'table here I ain't had the heart to disturb her—yet.”
“But she said she was goin' to stay,” put in Bailey. “You ain't goin' to KEEP her, are you?”
The captain's indignation was intense.
“Who—me?” he snorted. “What do you think I am? I ain't runnin' an orphan asylum. No, sir! I'll keep the young one a day or so—or maybe a week—and then I'll pack her off to Betsy Howes. I ain't so soft as they think I am. I'LL show 'em!”
Mr. Tidditt looked thoughtful.
“She's a kind of cute little girl, ain't she?” he observed.