Humbled by the terrors of his position, the proud shipowner turned more than ever to Captain Nibletts for comfort and sympathy, and it is but due to that little man to say that anything he could have done for his benefactor would have given him the greatest delight. He spent much of his spare time in devising means for his rescue, all of which the old man listened to with impatience and rejected with contumely.
“It’s no good, Nibletts,” he said, as they sat in the subdued light of the cabin one evening.
“Nothing can be done. If anything could be done, I should have thought of it.”
“Yes, that’s what struck me,” said the little skipper, dutifully.
“I’ve won that woman’s ’art,” said Captain Barber, miserably; “in ’er anxiety to keep me, the woman’s natur’ has changed. There’s nothing she wouldn’t do to make sure of me.”
“It’s understandable,” said Nibletts.
“It’s understandable,” agreed Captain Barber, “but it’s orkard. Instead o’ being a mild, amiable sort o’ woman, all smiles, the fear o’ losing me has changed ’er into a determined, jealous woman. She told me herself it was love of me as ’ad changed her.”
“You ain’t written to her, I suppose?” asked Nibletts, twisting his features into an expression of great cunning.
Captain Barber shook his head. “If you’d think afore speaking, Nibletts,” he said, severely, “you’d know as people don’t write to each other when they’re in the same house.”
The skipper apologised. “What I mean to say is this,” he said, softly. “She hasn’t got your promise in writing, and she’s done all the talking about it. I’m the only one you’ve spoken to about it, I s’pose?”