“He has worked hard because you and Mr. Kent compelled him to.”
“You are not fair to him,” warmly returned O’Shea. “There is not a man in the crew that has stood up to it any better. Nor am I warped in his favor, for I will own up that he rubbed me the wrong way at first.”
“Of course, I have admired the way he handled himself on board the Fearless,” admitted Nora, her conscience uneasy that she should be so laggard a champion. “But I hardly expected to hear you sing his praises, Captain O’Shea.”
“Why not? I would give me dearest enemy his deserts”—he hesitated and bluntly added—“and then if he got in my way I would do me best to wipe him off the map.”
“If he got in your way?” murmured Nora. “I should hate to be the man that stood in your way.”
“If there is to be straight talk between us,” demanded O’Shea, “tell me why ye show no more pleasure that this voyage has knocked the foolishness out of Van Steen and made a two-fisted man of him? When he came aboard he was an imitation man that had been spoiled by his money. He is different now. Can ye not see it for yourself?”
“Yes, I see it,” replied Nora, regarding O’Shea with a demeanor oddly perplexed. He was not playing the game to her liking. The interview had been twisted to lead her into a blind alley. With a petulant exclamation, she walked briskly toward the farther end of the key. O’Shea followed, admiring, cogitating.
Overtaking her, he indicated a broken topmast washed ashore from some tall sailing-ship, and they found seats upon it. The hypnotic spell of the sea took hold of them both until Nora turned and protestingly exclaimed:
“Aren’t you fearfully tired of seeing nothing but this great, blue, empty expanse of salt water?”
“My eyes could never tire if I had you to look at,” said he, not by way of making love to her, but as a simple statement of fact.