“Ye talk like an Irish girl.”
“My father was Irish.”
“Ah! that explains it,” said the man. “I’m Irish, ye know.”
“Are ye?” exclaimed Norah with a start.
“I am that,” said the man. “Why do ye jump like ye do? Maybe ye’re frightened of me?”
“No.”
“Maybe it’s yer first time at this work?”
The girl made no answer. Her cheeks were scarlet and she felt as if she could burst into tears, but stifled bravely the sob that rose to her throat.
“Don’t be frightened of me,” said the man. “We sailors are a rough lot at times, but we respect beauty, so to speak. My God, ye’re a soncy lookin’ wench. New to this kind of life as well!”
He paused.