“What?” cried the mate, raising his voice. “Three?”
“Three,” repeated the skipper. “Only three,” he added, hastily, as he saw a question trembling on the other’s lips.
“I’m ashamed of you,” said the latter, severely; “you ought to know better.”
“I don’t want any of your preaching, Jack,” said the skipper, briskly; “and, what’s more, I won’t have it. I deserve more pity than blame.”
“You’ll want all you can get,” said Fraser, ominously. “And does the other girl know of any of the others?”
“Of either of the others—no,” corrected Flower. “Of course, none of them know. You don’t think I’m a fool, do you?”
“Who is number three?” enquired the mate suddenly.
“Poppy Tyrell,” replied the other.
“Oh,” said Fraser, trying to speak unconcernedly; “the girl who came here last evening.”
Flower nodded. “She’s the one I’m going to marry,” he said, colouring. “I’d sooner marry her than command a liner. I’ll marry her if I lose every penny I’m going to have, but I’m not going to lose the money if I can help it. I want both.”