The news concerning Mother had upset me greatly, but my common-sense was not all gone. That there was something behind his offer I believed, but, even if there were not—if it was disinterested and made simply because my unearthing of the Bay Shore “cat” had caught his fancy—I did not consider for a moment accepting it. Not if Mother was like other women, well and strong, would I have accepted it. In Denboro I was Roscoe Paine, and my life story was my own secret. In New York how long would it be before that secret and my real name were known, and all the old disgrace and scandal resurrected?
“What do you say?” asked Colton, again. “Want more time to think about it, do you?”
I shook my head. “No,” I answered. “I have had time enough. I am obliged for the offer and I appreciate your kindness, but I cannot accept.”
I expected him to express impatience or, perhaps, anger; at least to ask my reasons for declining. But his only utterance was a “Humph!” For a moment he regarded me keenly. Then he said:
“Haven't got the answer yet, have I? All right. Well,” briskly, “when are you and I going on that shooting trip?”
“There is no shooting at present,” I answered, as soon as I could adjust my mind to this new switch in the conversation.
“That so? Any fishing?”
“I believe the squiteague are running outside. I heard they were.”
“What? Squit—which?”
“Squiteague. Weakfish some people call them.”