I had been watching him narrowly during the meal. I could not make up my mind whether he was a clever actor or only an unfortunate; he might be the latter, and still be what I was certain of,—a scamp.
The wind whistled and roared about the great verandas and into the glassless windows with all the vehemence of a New England snowstorm. It caught our well-protected punkah-lamps, and turned their broad flames into spiral columns of smoke. Ever and again a flash of lightning flared in our eyes, and revealed the water of the narrow straits lashed into a white fury.
I should have been thankful for the company of even a dog on such a night, and think the loafer felt it, for I could see that he was more at ease with every crash of thunder. I tiptoed over to the “little gal,” and noted her soft, regular breathing and healthful sleep, undisturbed by the fierce storm outside.
I lit a manila, and handed one to my companion. We puffed a moment in silence, while the boy replenished our glasses.
“Now,” I said, tipping my chair back against the wall, “tell me your story.”
My guest’s face at once assumed the expression of the professional loafer. My faith in him began to wane.
“I am an American,” he began glibly enough under the combined effects of the whiskey and dinner, “an old soldier. I fought with Grant in the Wilderness, and—”
“Of course,” I interrupted, “and with Sherman in Georgia. I have heard it all by a hundred better talkers than you. Suppose you skip it.”
I did not look up, but I was perfectly familiar with the expression of injured innocence that was mantling his face.
He began again in a few minutes, but his voice had lost some of its engaging frankness.