“Then we're wanting you to spake for us, Dempster. Aw, nothing much—nothing to rag you at all. Just tell them flat we won't—that'll do.”
“It's a serious matter, Pete. I must think it over.”
“Aw, think and think enough, Dempster—but mind you do it, though. The boys are counting on you. 'He's our anchor and he'll hould,' they're saying; But, bother the harbours, anyway,” reaching his hand for something on the mantelpiece. “What do you think?”
“Nay,” said Philip, with a long breath of weariness and relief.
“Guess, then,” said Pete, putting his hand behind him.
Philip shook his head and smiled feebly. Then, with the expression of a boy on his birthday, Pete leaned over Philip, and said in a half-whisper across the top of his head, “I've heard from Kate.”
Philip turned ghastly, his lip trembled, and he stammered, “You've—you've—heard from Kate, have you?”
“Look at that,” cried Pete, and round came the letter with a triumphant sweep.
Philip's respiration grew difficult and noisy. Slowly, very slowly, he reached out his hand, took the letter, and looked at its superscription.
“Read it—read it,” said Pete; “no secrets at all.”