“Sharks?–bah! All you have to do is to splash a little, and they haul off.”
“How about the steamer, Mr. Blake?” asked Miss Leslie, turning to face him.
“All under but the maintopmast–curse it!–wire rigging at that! Couldn’t even get a bolt.”
“A bolt?”
“Not a bolt; and here we are as good as naked on this infernal– Hey, you! what you doing with that match? Light your cigarette–light it!– Damnation!”
Heedless of Blake’s warning cry, Winthrope had struck his last vesta, and now, angry and bewildered, he stood staring while the little taper burned itself out. With an oath, Blake sprang to catch it as it dropped from between Winthrope’s fingers. But he was too far away. It fell among the damp rushes, spluttered, and flared out.
For a moment Blake knelt, staring at the rushes as though stupefied; then he sprang up before Winthrope, his bronzed face purple with anger.
“Where’s your matchbox? Got any more?” he demanded.
“Last one, I fancy–yes; last one, and there are still two cigarettes. But look here, Blake, I can’t tolerate your talking so deucedly–”
“You idiot! you–you– Hell! and every one for cigarettes!”