Kent refused the hot toddy and would have persisted in talking at once if his host had permitted. The latter refused to listen, and so the young man sat silent in the rocking chair, his soaked trouser legs and boots steaming in the heat from the open door of the oven, while the captain bustled about, hanging the wet overcoat on a nail in the corner, tossing the wrecked umbrella behind the stove and pretending not to look at his caller.
He did look, however, and what he saw was interesting certainly and might have been alarming had he been a person easily frightened or unduly apprehensive. Kent's wet cheeks had dried and they were flushed now from the warmth, but they were haggard, his eyes were underscored with dark semicircles, and his hands as he held them over the red-hot stove lids were trembling. He looked almost as if he were sick, but a sick man would scarcely be out of doors in such a storm. He had, apparently, forgotten his desire to talk, and was now silent, his gaze fixed upon the wall behind the stove.
Kendrick quietly placed a chair beside him and sat down.
"Well, George?" he asked.
Kent started. "Oh!" he exclaimed. And then, "Oh, yes! Cap'n Kendrick, I—I know you must think my coming here is queer, after—after——"
He hesitated. The captain helped him on.
"Not a bit, George," he said. "Not a bit. I'm mighty glad to see you. I told you to come any time, you remember. Well, you've come, haven't you? Now what is it?"
Kent's gaze left the wall and turned toward his companion. "Cap'n Kendrick," he began, then stopped. "Cap'n Kendrick," he repeated, "I—Mrs. Macomber said—she told me you said that—that——"
"All right, George, all right. I told her to remind you that one time you promised to come to me if you was in any—er—well, trouble, or if you had anything on your mind. I judge that's what you've come for, isn't it?"
Kent started violently. His feet slipped from the hearth and struck the floor with a thump.