. . . She could not miss me, and yet I had
made almost two miles before she got her head-sheets to windward and
stood by for me.
"As I drew close, a thin-faced man with a pointed beard hailed me
from her after-deck.
"'Ahoy, there! And who might _you_ be, mistaking the Pacific for
Broadway, New York?'
"'I'm from the island,' I answered.
"'What ship's boat is that you've gotten hold of?' he bawled.
"The _Two Brothers_.'
"'Lordy! I _thought_ I reckernised her. . . . Then you're old Buck
Vliet's missionary, that he marooned.' . . . Shall I go on, Roddy?"
I dropped my cigar into the ash-tray. "You may stop at that," I
answered, unable (that's the queer part of it) to lift my eyes and
look him in the face, although I knew very well that he was leaning
back in his chair, eyeing me steadily, challenging the verdict.
"Yes," said I, slowly turning the cigar-stump around in its ash,
"I'm sorry, Jack . . . but I don't want to hear any more."
"I knew you would take it so," said Jack quietly, with a sort of
sigh.
"Well," said I, "how else? Of course I know you'd had a damnable
provocation, to start with.
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