Roddy’s eyebrows rose.
“‘Roddy?’” he repeated, as though he had not heard aright. “Are you speaking to me?”
Sam Caldwell was conscious that over all the room there had come a sudden hush. A waiter, hurrying with a tray of jingling glasses, by some unseen hand was jerked by the apron and brought to abrupt silence. In the sudden quiet Roddy’s voice seemed to Caldwell to have come through a megaphone. The pink, smooth-shaven cheeks of the newcomer, that were in such contrast to the dark and sun-tanned faces around him, turned slowly red.
“What’s the idea?” he asked.
“You sent me a cable to Curaçao,” Roddy replied, “telling me to mind my own business.”
It had never been said of Sam Caldwell that he was an unwilling or unworthy antagonist. He accepted Roddy’s challenge promptly. His little, piglike eyes regarded Roddy contemptuously.
“I did,” he retaliated, “at your father’s dictation.”
“Well, my business hours,” continued Roddy undisturbed, “are between eight and five. If you come out to the light-house to-morrow you will see me minding my own business and bossing a gang of niggers, at twenty dollars a week. Outside of business hours I choose my own company.”
Caldwell came closer to him and dropped his voice.
“Are you sober?” he demanded.