The second bell rang on the steamer. It was seven minutes to nine, and the last of the luggage was packed. On the floor there still lay a pile of clothing, which was to be left as oil for the wounded joints of the gentlemen who had been flung down stairs. Willie Quarrie bustled about to get the trunks and hampers to the ferry steps. Davy, who had been in his shirt-sleeves, drew on his coat, and Lovibond, who had been waiting twenty torturing minutes for some opportunity to begin, plunged into the business of his visit at last.
“So you’re determined to go, Capt’n?” he said.
“I am,” said Davy.
“No message for Mrs. Quiggin? Dare say I could find her at Castle Mona.”
“No! Wait—yes—tell her—say I’m—if ever I—Chut! what’s the odds? No, no message.”
“Not even good-by, Capt’n?”
“She sent none to me—no.”
“Not a word?”
“Not a word.”
Davy was pawing up the carpet with the toe of his boot, and filling his pipe from his pouch.