“Why, to Spencer's, where we just come from.”
“Where's that?”
“Around in Lake Huron. If I had a chart here—Cap'n, ain't you got a chart o' Lake Huron?”
Except for Pink's eager voice, the room was still. The four other men sat like statues, leaning forward. As he waited for the reply, the boy became suddenly conscious of the odd expression of their faces. He had meant to help both Dick and himself—was he helping?
The thought that had already found a place in Dick's mind, the thought that they were in the hands of a merciless agent, whose whole object was to prove them guilty, whose own advantage, whose future perhaps, lay in proving them guilty—and that the course to be followed was not a matter for offhand decision, came now to him, and he faltered.
Captain Fargo shook his head. “No,” said he, huskily, “not even of Lake Michigan.”
“Go on, Harper. Perhaps you can tell us. Your memory's better than Smiley's.”
When Beveridge spoke that last sentence, he made a mistake. Pink glanced at Dick, and dropped his eyes. When he raised them, his lips were closed tight, as if he were afraid to open them at all.
“Well, go on.”
Pink shook his head.