Foster Townsend leaned back in the chair. His keen eyes narrowed.
“Humph!” he grunted. “Now what do you think you mean by that?”
“You know what I mean. Oh,” with bitter contempt, “what is the use of pretending you don’t?”
There was a moment of silence. Townsend threw one knee over the other.
“Look here, young man,” he said, sternly and deliberately. “As long as you’ve said so much, maybe we might as well have a clear understanding. If you mean that I am just as well satisfied to have you and my niece three or four thousand miles away from each other—if that is what you mean, then you are right. I am. Nothing but trouble for both of you could ever have come of your—well, getting too friendly. That is just as sure as that we are here in this shanty this minute.”
Bob would have retorted hotly. He had much to say and now he meant to say it. But his visitor lifted a hand.
“Wait,” he ordered. “When you say that I planned to separate you, you are right there too, dead right. And you can believe this or not—I made those plans not altogether on account of Esther. I was thinking of you. Not quite as much, maybe, but some.... Here, here! now hold a minute more. Let me tell you what I mean. I haven’t got anything against you in particular. You’re a decent enough boy, I guess. You are a Cook and I have had all the dealings with Cooks that I care to in this life, but there was more than that. If you weren’t any relation to your grandfather I should still put my foot down on you and Esther getting to think too much of each other. She is my niece, just the same as my daughter, and when she marries—as I presume likely she will some day—she will marry a man who is good enough for her, who amounts to something already and will amount to a whole lot more.”
Bob broke in.
“Some one like Seymour Covell, I suppose,” he suggested, with a sneer.
For an instant Townsend’s eyes flashed. Then he smiled grimly and shook his head.