“Maybe I am, but I am obliged, just the same. Not only for the help you gave Mabel—my daughter—last night, but for that business in the bay the other afternoon.”
So she had told him the whole story. Remembering her last words, as I left her in the hall, I had rather imagined she would.
“That didn't amount to anything,” I said, shortly.
“Why, yes, it did. It might have amounted to a whole lot. I asked Peters some questions about the tides out here and, from what he said, I judge that being stuck on the shoals in a squall might not be altogether a joke. Mabel says you handled the affair mighty well.”
I did not answer. He chuckled.
“How did young Carver enjoy playing second fiddle?” he asked. “From what I've seen of him he generally expects to lead the band. Happy, was he?”
I remained silent. He smiled broadly.
“He isn't any too happy this morning,” he went on. “That young man won't do. I never quoted him within twenty points of par, but Mabel seemed to like him and her mother thought he was the real thing. Mrs. C. couldn't forget that his family is one of the oldest on the list. Personally I don't gamble much on families; know a little about my own and that little is enough. But women are different. However, family or not, he won't do. I should tell him so myself, but I guess Mabel will save me the trouble. She's got a surprising amount of common-sense, considering that she's an only child—and who her parents are. By the way, Paine, what did Carver say when you put him ashore?”
“He—he said—oh, nothing of importance.”
“Yes, I know that. I listened to his explanations last night. But did he say anything?”