Silently Clem produced the article in question. It began to seem as though something were very wrong, indeed. Ed Davis sat watching and listening, his grin gone. When the old skipper had lighted the pipe he leaned back and looked at Clem again.
“Well, Clem, I—I guess it was the first time. I ain’t much used to lies. But sometimes lies has to come.”
“Not between us, cap’n,” and Clem’s strong, bronzed face lightened. “What’s the trouble?”
“You,” said the old man, puffing out a huge cloud of smoke.
“I! What do you mean?”
Captain Saunders sighed. His weather-beaten face was set in lines of sadness.
“Clem, you allus been a mighty good boy, and I know it better’n most people. But when it comes to a scrap, you got a reputation around here like a downeast mate. I don’t blame you none, o’ course.”
“Go on,” urged Clem as the skipper paused. He wondered what was coming next.
“Well, Tom allus did admire you a heap, Clem, but since you been gone to the city Tom’s kind o’ got the notion that he’s stepped into your fightin’ boots, and he’s gone around handin’ out some fine lickin’s. For a fact, Tom can light like a streak.”
“I guess he came by it honestly,” was the reply, and Clem smiled slightly as he eyed the old skipper’s broad shoulders.