Stevens seemed particularly preoccupied, and left the conversation to Stella and me; but we managed not to miss his share overmuch. I leave the reason to the acute to fathom.
Supper cleared, the girl and I tackled cribbage. Incidentally, she played an abominable game, though I wouldn’t admit it.
Stevens busied himself at a small wall desk, doing some sort of drawing—probably a sketch of the way he would effect to-morrow’s task in refitting.
It was a quiet night, and the moon rose late.
Perhaps the game had run an hour when we heard the pop-pop of the returning dory launch; then came the slight thump as she brought up to the port ladder.
Stevens left the cabin to meet the fellows; returning almost immediately, and carrying a couple of packages, probably the turnbuckles, and a stack of newspapers which he flopped down on the center table.
Then came the slam of a door behind me as I sat with my back to the owner’s stateroom.
Even before I turned I could feel the change in him; and one look riveted the impression. I had begun to know that look.
But it was some time before he said a word. I could see that he was laboring to conceal some sort of excitement—for the girl’s sake, it flashed on me.
We kept on with our game, and, with a grunt, Stroth caught up one of the newspapers from the pile. The sheet shook under his hand as he turned page after page.