Blow the Man Down - A Romance of the Coast

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.