“You needn't, unless you wish,” she said. “I have no right to know”—adding, with characteristic femininity, “though I'm dying to.”
“But I want you to know. As I told Atkins when I first came, I haven't murdered anyone and I haven't stolen anything. I'm not a crook running from justice. I'm just a plain idiot who fell overboard from a steamer and”—bitterly—“hadn't the good luck to drown.”
She made no comment, and he began his story, telling it much as he had told it to the lightkeeper.
“There!” he said in conclusion, “that's the whole fool business. That's why I'm here. No need to ask what you think of it, I suppose.”
She was silent, gazing at the breakers. He drew his own conclusions from her silence.
“I see,” he said. “Well, I admit it. I'm a low down chump. Still, if I had it to do over again, I should do pretty much the same. A few things differently, but in general the very same.”
“What would you do differently?” she asked, still without looking at him.
“For one thing, I wouldn't run away. I'd stay and face the music. Earn my living or starve.”
“And now you're going to stay here?”
“No longer than I can help. If I get the appointment as assistant keeper I'll begin to save every cent I can. Just as soon as I get enough to warrant risking it I'll head for Boston once more and begin the earning or starving process. And,” with a snap of his jaws, “I don't intend to starve.”