Cynthia was blushing furiously.
"How can you make me so ridiculous, Uncle?"
"I don't say you knew it, Cynthy." The Skipper spoke slowly and with emphasis. "I never said you knew what you said. All the same, I am not deef yet. I was sittin' by you, Cynthy, girl—you will acknowledge that, won't you? Well, you just turned your head with the sweetest, prettiest smile, and you said, so soft I could hardly hear you, 'Hiram'—just like that, 'Hi-ram.'"
"I have no doubt it was so soft you could not hear it.—I never—never said it in the world, Mr. Jones, never. I do not call Mr. Jones by his given name, such a name, such a name—I nev——"
The rest of this incoherent sentence was lost. Tears of shame filled her eyes and ran down her blushing cheeks. She dropped the coat, got up and went to the lattice, and looked out.
I sat, my head against the wall, lost in the most pleasurable feelings. If it was true, she did like me a little, after all.
There was no sound in the cave for some time but the gentle breathing of the young English lad. The Skipper broke the silence and changed the subject by saying, "Let's have a drink."
"Shan't we wait for the Bo's'n, Captain?" said I.
"Well, well, as you like," answered the Skipper, a little impatiently. "You know this, Jones: You're a short time living and a long time dead, and you'd better make all out of this life that you can."
I saw that Cynthia turned her tear-stained face my way, as if she endorsed this remark. But she withdrew her eyes at once when I returned her glance, and looked out to sea again. She stood gazing far out over the water. The morning was fresh and bright, a gentle wind rippled the surface of the wide bay. The tide was low.