Still the ladies said nothing, but there was a storm-signal hoisted in Mrs. Bunnett’s cheek, which boded no good to her husband. There was room only for one trunk in the state-room, and by prompt generalship Mrs. Fillson got hers in first. Having seen it safe she went up on deck for a look round.
“George,” said Mrs. Bunnett fiercely, as soon as they were alone.
“Yes, my dear,” said her husband.
“Pack that woman off home,” said Mrs. Bunnett sharply.
“I couldn’t do that,” said the skipper firmly. “It’s your own fault; you should have said you was coming.”
“Oh, I know you didn’t want me to come,” said Mrs. Bunnett, the roses on her bonnet trembling. “The mate can think of a little pleasure for his wife, but I can stay at home and do your mending and keep the house clean. Oh, I know; don’t tell me.”
“Well, it’s too late to alter it,” said her husband. “I must get up above now; you’d better come too.”
Mrs. Bunnett followed him on deck, and, getting as far from the mate’s wife as possible, watched with a superior air of part ownership the movements of the seamen as they got under way. A favorable westerly breeze was blowing, and the canvas once set she stood by her husband as he pointed out the various objects of interest on the banks of the river.
They were still in the thick of the traffic at dinner time, so that the skipper was able, to his secret relief, to send the mate below to do the honours of the table. He came up from it pale and scared, and, catching the skipper’s eye, hunched his shoulders significantly.
“No words?” inquired the latter anxiously, in a half-whisper.