Then came another slight interval of silence, during which I puffed away contentedly at the panetela, for I felt no presentiment of coming trouble. In fact, I was beginning rather to enjoy the situation.
I knew men well enough to read in Stroth that he had not lost sight of the saving part I had played the night before; though, as I sat there looking at him, I confessed to myself he was a puzzle in some way—distinctly a puzzle.
He came out of his momentary abstraction with a shout of enthusiasm that was positively boyish:
“Then it’s to be a little pleasure trip, after all! Good enough, Grey! And I believe you’ll find that——”
Here I was fool enough to enter a wedge of curiosity.
“Then all that dope about this being the schooner that has been working the Sound is absolute bunkum, Mr. Stroth?”
It was as if I had touched a match to bomb.
His brow darkened, and he bit out:
“I believe I’m doing pretty well by you! But, of course, you have your choice—that is—pleasure trip—or otherwise. Understand me? Otherwise.”
I hastened to shift.