"I want to talk to you to-night," he said, varying his formula, as she sat down.
She gave him a swift, uncertain glance.
"Got to," he added gravely. "It's a case, an' I just got to."
"What about?" she asked, with a touch of resentment that was new in her.
"I guess you know," he answered quietly, and hitched nearer to her along the bench to make room for a new-comer who was thrusting in beside him. He turned perfunctorily to see who it might be. It was old Noble.
"Friends!" grated the voice of the missioner. "Let us begin by singing hymn number seventy-nine: 'Pull for the shore, sailor; pull for the shore!'"
The noise of the harmonium drowned the rustling of hymn-book pages.
Noble's elbow drove against Goodwin's.
"Found ye!" rumbled the old man. "Say, come on out where I can talk to ye. We're sailin' in the mornin'."
"Hush!" whispered Goodwin. "I can't come out. What d'you want?"
The little congregation rose to its feet for the singing of the hymn. Old Noble, rising with them, leaned forward and peered past Goodwin at the girl. His keen old face inspected her inscrutably for a while.