Gordon Elliot meant what he said. He was himself an athlete, had played for three years left tackle on his college eleven. More than one critic had picked him for the All-America team. He could do his hundred in just a little worse than ten seconds. But after all he was a product of training and of the gymnasiums. Macdonald was what nature and a long line of fighting Highland ancestors had made him. His sinewy, knotted strength, his massive build, the breadth of shoulder and depth of chest—mushing on long snow trails was the gymnasium that had contributed to these.
The purser chuckled. "He's a good un, Mac is. They say he liked to have drowned Northrup after he had saved him."
Elliot was again following with his eyes the lilt of the girl's movements. Apparently he had not heard what the officer said. At least he gave no answer.
With a grin the purser opened another attack. "Don't blame you a bit, Mr. Elliot. She's the prettiest colleen that ever sailed from Dublin Bay."
The young man brought his eyes home. They answered engagingly the smile of the purser.
"Who is she?"
"The name on the books is Sheba O'Neill."
"From Dublin, you say."
"Oh, if you want to be literal, her baggage says Drogheda. Ireland is Ireland to me."
"Where is she bound for?"