“Oh, I wouldn’t be sayin’ that, Esther,” said David. “I allow I can’t make anything o’ Uncle Whinn nowadays, but the war has turned many a man queerish. Still, I never heard him so boastful-like afore tonight—”
“‘’Twasn’t so bad,’” she quoted resentfully, “‘’twasn’t so bad!’—and it the bravest thing a human man could do? Oh, David, I do wish ye wasn’t sailin’ wi’ him, though he is your uncle. He’s a coward—that’s what he is, I’m sure.”
“I wouldn’t be sayin’ that, neither,” the young man gently protested. “He’s maybe feared—I surely doubt he is—but that’s not the same as bein’ a coward—not by a long chalk.”
“He’s got neither wife nor family, and he’s oldish,” she persisted.
“But I s’pose life’s sweet even when a man’s oldish. As for bein’ feared—out yonder wi’ the patrol, I was seldom anything else,” said David quietly.
“David Cathles, I don’t believe ye!”
“I’m feared now; I’ll be feared all this comin’ trip. Uncle Whinn has got more to be feared o’ ’n me.
“I don’t see that.”
“Well, if a U-boat gets the better o’ the old Hesperus—and she hasn’t got a gun yet—’tis ten to one the ’Uns make a prisoner o’ Uncle Whinn. ’Tisn’t cheerful to ha’ that on your mind all the time—is it now, Esther?”
“I grant ye that, David,” she said, with unexpected compunction. “Only he shouldn’t be so big about hisself and so small about the pluck o’ other men. I’d ha’ said he was feared o’ the very sea itself.”