"Yes; I could eat a ship, masts, and spars," I went on.
"Well, I suppose I'll be tough enough," she said, glancing at me with some show of fear in her eyes. "I once read of men on a raft who ate each other; but I never thought it would be my turn. No, never."
"Don't be absurd," I said. "I don't intend to eat you—not yet."
She looked at me very hard. Her eyes were moist; big, lustrous eyes. "No," she said seriously, "I don't believe you will," and she put her hand in mine.
"Aw, don't be frightened, kid," I said. "I may look like the devil, but I'm not."
And I sat there like an idiot holding that girl's hand, while the sun rose and shone warmer and warmer upon us, drying our garments and cheering us wonderfully. I had never met a girl of this kind before; and it was something of a problem how I was to keep her alive and cheerful on that raft. I swore fiercely at Jake, at Jones, and the rest for leaving us adrift. My oaths were something strange to the girl, for she shivered and drew her hand away.
"Please don't," she said quietly. "What good does it do to use such language?"
"Eases me a lot, miss. What's your name?"
"Alice Trueman."
I mumbled the name a few times, then relapsed into silence. After that there was nothing more said for a long time; but I saw her looking at me at intervals. Evidently I was an animal she was not used to, and I wondered at a mother who would bring up a girl to view a man as such a terrible sort of creature. I was a rough sailor; but I was human.