During all this talk a load of thought or anxiety had weighed upon the captain. There was no part for which nature had so liberally endowed him as that of the genial ship-captain. But to-day he was silent and abstracted. Those who knew him could see that he hearkened close to every syllable, and seemed to ponder and try it in balances. It would have been hard to say what look there was, cold, attentive, and sinister, as of a man maturing plans, which still brooded over the unconscious guest; it was here, it was there, it was nowhere; it was now so little that Herrick chid himself for an idle fancy; and anon it was so gross and palpable that you could say every hair on the man’s head talked mischief.
He woke up now, as with a start. “You were talking of a charter,” said he.
“Was I?” said Attwater. “Well, let’s talk of it no more at present.”
“Your own schooner is overdue, I understand?” continued the captain.
“You understand perfectly, Captain Brown,” said Attwater; “thirty-three days overdue at noon to-day.”
“She comes and goes, eh? plies between here and ...?” hinted the captain.
“Exactly; every four months; three trips in the year,” said Attwater.
“You go in her ever?” asked Davis.
“No; one stops here,” said Attwater; “one has plenty to attend to.”
“Stop here, do you?” cried Davis. “Say, how long?”