"Good enough!" he repeated senselessly. "Good enough?" He laughed half wildly, as though he had suddenly hit upon a very funny thought indeed. "That man in love with a girl like her.… Good Lord!"
And Fat Joe, who had failed to understand, swore again beneath his breath because there was no time left in which to argue the matter. His face was still very red from his struggle for self-restraint, and his whole mental balance so disturbed that he forgot entirely to conceal the blued revolver dangling in one hand when he re-entered the cabin a moment later. The latter object ruined the effect of his insouciant rendition of "Home, Sweet Home."
"Thought you were going to retire, Joe?"
Steve was already undressed and crawling into bed. His question was slow-worded and a trifle stifled.
"I was," Joe assured him hastily. "I was. I just stepped out to see that everything was tight and tidy for the night, that's all."
Quizzical eyes contemplated the revolver now.
"Taken to carrying a weapon, after all, eh? Well, perhaps that's wisest. And blow out the light, will you, Joe? I'm tired. You'll have to undress in the dark."
Then Steve buried his face in his pillow. But sundry sounds, escaping, were unmistakably hysterical. Joe's mouth opened and closed, fishlike. He stood and stared down at his side, in beautifully eloquent profanity, if a stare can be both eloquent and profane.
"You need a nurse," he stated sulkily at last. He finished the light with a vicious blast. "You need a chaperon!"
But once again, just before he slept, Steve heard him mutter to himself, less injuredly, as he heaved over in his bunk.