Once more the smart schooner was undergoing its daily grooming. Old Steve was distributing polishing kits to four of the men, though he stopped long enough to take a tug at his forelock in salute. Evidently my[Pg 45] reception aft had made a great impression upon him, as well it might.
But I returned the greeting as democratically as I could, and turned to a question that came sharply from behind me.
It was Stevens.
“Did Mr. Stroth come to breakfast?” said he, without preliminary.
“No,” I replied, as directly. “The Jap took it in to him.”
Not another word passed, but he looked his chagrin, which bordered upon anger. Then he paced back to his position on the quarter-deck.
The few minutes that were left me alone I gave to thinking over the revelations just made me by this girl.
I watched the waters swirling past the beam, though they let in no light upon the mystery. But I did glow with delight at the thought that, whatever shady guilt hung over that low-lying vessel, it was not shared by her.
My feeling toward her hadn’t changed a whit; I loved her even more intensely, but certainly it was a strange situation. There was a quietness about it all, an inevitableness that bore the irrevocable stamp of fate itself. Predetermined it was—my love for her—and, as such, to be greeted quietly, mildly. It was decided, and I was happy.
I know how absurd this sounds as I thus word it, but it’s as near as I can come to the actual fact.