"You are the stupidest blockhead I ever saw, for one who knows how to keep a set of books. Are you simpleton enough to suppose I would leave the Florina opposite the mouth of the river, where she would drag her anchor in the first blow that came?" growled Mr. Whippleton, with increased vehemence and anger. "I was going to moor her behind this headland, where she will be safe till I can come after her."
"You were very careful not to wake me, when you got up your anchor."
"What do you suppose I cared whether I waked you or not, you blunderhead. Now stand by here till we have moored the Florina. Let go your anchor."
"I can keep her where she is as long as there is a breeze. Moor your boat, and I am all ready for Chicago."
Mr. Whippleton pulled back to his yacht, and sailed her a short distance inside of the point, where I heard the splash of the anchor. His explanation of his movement was reasonable enough, and if I had been disposed to be satisfied with anything he said or did which involved his absence in the body from me, I might have been contented with it. The more determined he was in charging me with blunders, the better I was satisfied that my course was right; and I preferred to let the future rather than the present justify my conduct.
"What's the matter, Philip?" asked Marian, opening the slide of the cabin.
"Nothing; it is all right now."
"But I heard some hard words just now," she persisted.
"Mr. Whippleton thinks I have made another blunder—that's all."
I told her what had occurred, and that, as there was a little breeze, we should probably start for Chicago in a short time. I advised her to return to her berth, and not be disturbed by anything she heard. She acknowledged that she had slept very well till the noise awoke her, and she was willing to repeat the experiment. She retired, closed and fastened the slide behind her. In about half an hour Mr. Whippleton and Peter came on board.