"Honored, Miss Melnotte," declared the captain, with old-fashioned courtesy. "If I can say anything to help keep your mind off your troubles, I shall be glad."
His face was very brown and there were innumerable wrinkles about the eyes, as is usually the case with plainsmen and seamen—those who gaze across great distances; but the eyes themselves twinkled liked cut-steel beads.
"How do you know I have any troubles, Captain Dexter?" she asked.
"Why, I am the only person on this craft, I opine, who is travelin' for pleasure," he said, watching her quizzically. "People don't sail in war time—at least, not this war time—without bein' in trouble of some sort. Eh?"
With his head on one side as he asked the question, he looked somewhat like a shrewd old cockatoo.
"It is true I am not crossing for pleasure," she admitted, and told him her object in sailing for the shores of France.
"Plucky girl! Yes, the French are making a wonderfully good fight. We couldn't have done better ourselves," declared this staunch American. "I'm Yankee—the real stock. Clear back to the Revolution and beyond. I fought in the Rebellion. Would you think it? Powder monkey on Admiral Farragut's flagship," he pursued proudly. "Enlisted and lied about my age at twelve—and for a liar I made a pretty good fighter," he chuckled. "The admiral himself said that when I was laid up in sick-bay with a bit of shell in my leg. I carry that scar—and a limp in damp weather—to this day."
"Oh, you have seen real fighting at sea, then?" Belinda said, with interest.
"Yes, ma'am! Hist!" whispered Captain Dexter, leaning nearer. "That's why I am aboard this Belle o' Perth."
She looked her surprise and misunderstanding.