"Thank you, Captain," breaks in Mr. Ellins, kind of choky; "that—that will be all."
You should have seen the different expressions around that table after the Captain has gone. I don't know that I ever saw Old Hickory actually look sheepish before. As for Auntie, she's almost ready to blow a fuse.
"Well," says she explosive. "I like that! Jokes, are we?"
"So it appears," says Mr. Ellins. "At any rate, we seem to be in no danger from a mutinous crew. Our little enterprise merely amuses them."
"Pooh!" says Auntie. "Ignorant sailors! What do they know about—"
But just then there booms in through the portholes this hearty hail from outside:
"Ahoy the Agnes! Who's aboard there? Wha-a-a-at! Mr. Ellins, of New York. Well, well! Hey, you! Fend off there. I'm coming in."
"Megrue!" says Old Hickory. "If it isn't I'll—"
It was, all right: Bernard J. Megrue, one of our biggest Western customers, president of a couple of railroads, and director in a lot of companies that's more or less close to the Corrugated Trust. He's a husk, Barney Megrue is—big and breezy, with crisp iron-gray hair, lively black eyes, and all the gentle ways of a section boss.
He's got up in a complete khaki rig, includin' shirt and hat to match, and below the eyebrows he has a complexion like a mahogany sideboard. It don't take him long to make himself right to home among us.