“I ain't a fool,” replied the mate, with an impatient gesture.
“I'd feel a little safer if you were. Well, all right, Pink, make her fast. We 'll let him try it.”
McGlory took the wheel, and Dick sat by him on the cabin trunk. They went out as they had come in, gaining a rod here and a yard there, as the vagrant night breezes stirred the trees and faintly rippled the water. Up forward the men settled down as quietly as if working out of Burnt Cove after midnight were a part of the daily routine. Dick smoked in silence. The mate alone was nervous. For some reason he seemed as anxious now to get out of the Cove as he had been to get into it. Occasionally his eyes wandered back toward the darker spot where the landing was. Once he seemed to hear something,—they were then in sight of the open lake,—and he swung her off quickly to gain headway. Finally Dick asked:—
“Got another o' your lady friends stowed away up here?”
The mate grunted.
“Maybe you thought you'd just drop around for a little call. That the idea?”
“No, that ain't the idea.”
“I didn't know you were a Mormon.”
Another grunt.
“Case o' temporary mental aberration, perhaps. You thought you owned the schooner. Or maybe you dreamed I was going to give it to you—not for its intrinsic value, but as a token of affection and esteem. That it?”