Later in the evening Hanley and Livingstone were seated alone on deck. The visit to Las Bocas had not proved amusing, but, much to Livingstone’s relief, his honored guest was now in good-humor. He took his cigar from his lips, only to sip at a long cool drink. He was in a mood flatteringly confidential and communicative.
“People have the strangest idea of what I can do for them,” he laughed. It was his pose to pretend he was without authority. “They believe I’ve only to wave a wand, and get them anything they want. I thought I’d be safe from them on board a yacht.”
Livingstone, in ignorance of what was coming, squirmed apprehensively.
“But it seems,” the senator went on, “I’m at the mercy of a conspiracy. The women folk want me to do something for this fellow Marshall. If they had their way, they’d send him to the Court of St. James. And old Hardy, too, tackled me about him. So did Miss Cairns. And then Marshall himself got me behind the wheel-house, and I thought he was going to tell me how good he was, too! But he didn’t.”
As though the joke were on himself, the senator laughed appreciatively.
“Told me, instead, that Hardy ought to be a vice-admiral.”
Livingstone, also, laughed, with the satisfied air of one who cannot be tricked.
“They fixed it up between them,” he explained, “each was to put in a good word for the other.” He nodded eagerly. “That’s what I think.”
There were moments during the cruise when Senator Hanley would have found relief in dropping his host overboard. With mock deference, the older man inclined his head.
“That’s what you think, is it?” he asked. “Livingstone,” he added, “you certainly are a great judge of men!”