"Oh, I just dropped in," he said awkwardly. "I belong to th' Etna, lyin' in the dock down yonder."
The missioner smiled and nodded.
"Etna, eh? Ah, yes. Somebody was tellin' me about the Etna. A hard ship that's what you call her, eh?"
Goodwin nodded, and considered the face upturned toward his own innocent, benevolent, middle-aged, worn, too, with hopes and disappointments, yet unscarred by such bitter knowledge as men gained early aboard the Etna.
"We call her the 'Hell-packet,'" he answered seriously.
The missioner nodded, and his smile, though it flickered, survived.
"It's an ugly name," he said; "but maybe she deserves it. An' so you saw our door open and just stepped in? It's always open in the evenin's and on Sundays, an' we'll always be glad to see you. Now, I'd like to make you acquainted with one of our young ladies, so's you won't feel you're a stranger, eh? An' then maybe you'll come again."
"Oh, I dunno" began Goodwin, fidgeting.
But the missioner was already beckoning with a black-sleeved arm.
His pale elderly face seemed to shine.
Goodwin turned, looked to see whom he summoned, and forthwith dropped his cap, so that he was bent double to pick it up when the young lady, the tall girl who had offered him the hymn-book, arrived. He came upright again face to face with her, abandoned by his faculties, a mere sop of embarrassment before the softness of her eyes and the smile of her lips.