Captain Mayo waited, for some minutes. The girl did not lift her head.
"About that--What he said about--You understand! I know better!" he
faltered.
"Thank you, sir," she said, gratefully, still hiding her face from him.
"Men sometimes do very foolish things."
"I didn't know my father could be like this."
"I was thinking about the men who came and annoyed him. I can understand
how he felt, because I am 'a 'native' myself."
"I thought you were from outside."
"My name is Boyd Mayo. I'm from Mayoport."
She looked up at him with frank interest.
"My folks built this schooner," he stated, with modest pride.
"I'm Polly Candage--I'm named for it."
"It's too bad!" he blurted. "I don't mean to say but what the name is
all right," he explained, awkwardly, "but I don't think that either
of us is particularly proud of this old hooker right at the present
moment." He went across the cabin and sat down on a transom and, tested
the bump on the back of his head with cautious palm.
She did not reply, and he set his elbows on his knees and proceeded to
nurse his private grouch in silence, quite excluding his companion
from his thoughts. Now that he had been snatched so summarily from his
hateful position on board the Olenia, his desire to leave her was not
so keen. After Mayo's declaration to the owner, Marston might readily
conclude that his skipper had deserted. His reputation and his license
as a shipmaster were in jeopardy, and he had already had a bitter taste
of Marston's intolerance of shortcomings. If Marston cared to bother
about breaking such a humble citizen, malice had a handy weapon. But
most of all was Mayo concerned with the view Alma Marston would take of
the situation. She would either believe that he had fallen overboard
in the skirmish with the attacking Polly or had deserted without
warning--and in the case of a lover both suppositions were agonizing.
His distress was so apparent that the girl, from her seat on the
opposite transom, extended sympathy in the glances she dared to give
him.
"How did you tear your coat so badly in the back?" she ventured at last.
"Spikes your excellent father left sticking out of his martingale," he
said, a sort of boyish resentment in his tones.
"Then it is only right that I should offer to mend it for you."
She hurried to a locker, as if glad of an excuse to occupy herself. She
produced her little sewing-basket and then came to him and held out her
hand.