“I wouldn’t label any four-footed beast by the name I’d call you,” said Mr. Hazen firmly.
“Why didn’t you tell me your name?” Monty asked.
“You ought to have remembered me,” the implacable Hazen retorted. “Why, I held you in my arms when you were only three months old.”
“Then I wish you had dropped me and broken me,” Monty exclaimed, “and I should have been spared a lot of worry.” Things were piling up to make him more than ever nervous. He had overheard two passengers saying they understood the Mauretania’s voyagers were to have a special examination at the Customs on account of diamond smuggling. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hazen,” he said more graciously, “but I’ve things on my mind and you must accept that as the reason.”
When he had gone Mr. Hazen was introduced to Denby and prevailed upon to occupy Monty’s seat.
“I don’t like the look of it,” Mr. Hazen said, shaking his head. “At his age he oughtn’t to have any worries. I didn’t.”
“If you can keep a secret,” Mrs. Harrington confided, “I think I can tell you exactly what is the matter with Monty and I’m sure you’ll make excuses for him, Mr. Hazen.”
“Maybe,” he returned dubiously, “but you should have heard how he called me down before a steward!”
“Monty’s in love,” Mrs. Harrington declared, “and after almost two years’ absence he is going to meet her again; and the dread of not daring to propose is sapping his brain. You’re not the first. He’s been out of sorts the whole time and I’ve had to smooth things over with other people. Come, now,” she said coaxingly, “when you were young I’m sure you had some episodes of that sort yourself, now didn’t you?”
Mr. Hazen tried not to let her see the proud memories that came surging back through a quarter of a century. “Well,” he admitted, “if you put it that way, Mrs. Harrington, I’ve got to forgive the boy.”