It was Mary who dispelled her doubt. “Florence,” once they were alone in the kitchen, she gripped her arm hard, “that man’s the one who roared at the little Eskimo, Mr. Il-ay-ok, back there on the dock in Anchorage.”
“That’s right,” Florence’s whisper rose shrill and high. “I don’t like him and I don’t think I ever shall.”
“Why did he hate that little man?”
“Who knows?” Florence answered hastily. “Anyway, his name is Peter Loome.”
“How—how do you know that?”
Florence did not catch this, she was already hurrying away.
“We’re bound for the big-game hunting ground,” one of the men was explaining to Mark. “Wonderful sport! Wild sheep and goats, moose and big brown bear!”
“Man, you’re lucky!” Bill exclaimed.
Mark made no response.
“Your motor don’t sound just right,” Mark said as the conversation lagged.