"Can't you cry or do something? Why don't you act womanly. I wish to God you was home with your Aunt Mary 'Zekel!"
The Skipper seemed to have lost his nerve.
"What shall we do, Jones? Cut away the mast, I suppose."
"Better lower some boats, sir, at once," said I. "We're no match for them."
Cynthia had the glass raised to her eyes.
"They're getting out a boat," she said.
"Let me see."
The Skipper seized the spyglass from Cynthia so roughly that he pulled her sunbonnet from her head. She stood beside him bareheaded, the gentle tropic breeze blowing her hair into a thousand little brown rings. I ran close to her as I was hurrying to get the boats lowered. Her mouth was set, as if she did not fancy her Uncle's rough treatment.
"He doesn't mean it, Miss Archer," I said in as sympathetic a tone as I could command. "He's worried and——"
"You need not apologize to me for my Uncle, Mr. Jones. We understand each other thoroughly." She went up to the old man and laid her hand upon his shoulder. He shook it off impatiently.