“This suits me better,” said Fraser; “my father’s an old man, and he wanted me home. I shall have a little steamer he’s got an interest in as soon as her present skipper goes, so it’s just as well for me to know these waters.”
In this wise they sat talking until evening gave way to night, and the deck of the Foam was obscured in shadow. Lamps were lit on the wharves, and passing craft hung out their side-lights. The girl rose to her feet.
“I won’t wait any longer; I must be going,” she said.
“He may be back at any moment,” urged the mate.
“No, I’d better go, thank you,” replied the girl; “it’s getting late. I don’t like going home alone.”
“I’ll come with you, if you’ll let me,” said the mate, eagerly.
“All the way?” said Miss Tyrell, with the air of one bargaining.
“Of course,” said Fraser.
“Well, I’ll give him another half-hour, then,” said the girl, calmly. “Shall we go down to the cabin? It’s rather chilly up here now.”
The mate showed her below, and, lighting the lamp, took a seat opposite and told her a few tales of the sea, culled when he was an apprentice, and credulous of ear. Miss Tyrell retaliated with some told her by her father, from which Fraser was able to form his own opinion of that estimable mariner. The last story was of a humourous nature, and the laughter which ensued grated oddly on the ear of the sturdy, good-looking seaman who had just come on board. He stopped at the companion for a moment listening in amazement, and then, hastily descending, entered the cabin.