“Butter-fingered! He, indeed!” I muttered to myself, as I brought up the rear. “His hand’s as steady as a rifleman’s, and he had just told me he wouldn’t take fifty dollars for that negative. I guess I’d better go slow in confab for a while.”
CHAPTER XI.
CAPTAIN STEVENS AGAIN.
The mahogany-trimmed saloon greeted us cheerfully with its immaculate linen and polished silver, and I contrasted the environment with the last place in which I had partaken of food, the forecastle. And I then and there resolved to play every card I had or could gather to stay “aft.”
My appetite was whetted, even during the short time since the homely meal old Steve had provided; and, indeed, we all tackled the splendid food with zest.
There were four of us; Stroth, his daughter, Stevens, and myself.
Stevens had been the last to enter, which he did from his own stateroom, situated still farther aft.
“You, Mr. Grey, and Captain Stevens have met before, I believe,” said Stroth, without a quiver, and the little man and I each took the hint, and shook hands cordially enough, though I did feel kind of funny when I did so. But I was more surprised when Stroth followed this up with:
“And now you see Captain Stevens, Stella,” whereupon the captain bowed in most courtly manner, while I wondered considerably.
“We scarcely had time back there on the launch to get acquainted, did we, captain?” she said lightly.
Stevens shot me a quick glance, as he replied: