From where he stood Faraday could see the visitors grouped on the port side of the deck. He managed to catch a fleeting gleam from Juanita’s sparkling eyes, then his gaze wandered to a figure clad in the loudest of loud English checks.
It was J. Chesire-Cheshire Cate.
The doughty Briton had dropped his eyeglass and was staring eagerly toward the gangway. To Clif, who was not more than fifteen feet away, his face seemed absolutely transfigured.
He no longer wore the vacuous, simpering expression, but into his face had crept an air of desperate determination so intense that Clif marveled at the sight.
“I say, Trolley,” he whispered to the Japanese youth, who stood next to him, “just look at that blooming Englishman.”
“He sick?”
“No, but he seems greatly excited. That fellow is a mystery to me. I thought at first he was an empty-headed dude, but, by George, I believe he is playing a part.”
“What for?” queried Joy, who had overheard him.
“I don’t know,” replied Clif, “but I’ll keep my eyes on him just the same.”