Chance

Franklin muttered, "Depends on what the wife is up to." The steward

leaning against the bulkhead near the door glowered at Powell, that

newcomer, that ignoramus, that stranger without right or privileges. He

snarled: "Wife! Call her a wife, do you?"

"What the devil do you mean by this?" exclaimed young Powell.

"I know what I know. My old woman has not been six months on board for

nothing. You had better ask her when we get back."

And meeting sullenly the withering stare of Mr. Powell the steward

retreated backwards.

Our young friend turned at once upon the mate. "And you let that

confounded bottle-washer talk like this before you, Mr. Franklin. Well,

I am astonished."

"Oh, it isn't what you think. It isn't what you think." Mr. Franklin

looked more apoplectic than ever. "If it comes to that I could astonish

you. But it's no use. I myself can hardly . . . You couldn't

understand. I hope you won't try to make mischief. There was a time,

young fellow, when I would have dared any man--any man, you hear?--to

make mischief between me and Captain Anthony. But not now. Not now.

There's a change! Not in me though . . . "

Young Powell rejected with indignation any suggestion of making mischief.

"Who do you take me for?" he cried. "Only you had better tell that

steward to be careful what he says before me or I'll spoil his good looks

for him for a month and will leave him to explain the why of it to the

captain the best way he can."

This speech established Powell as a champion of Mrs. Anthony. Nothing

more bearing on the question was ever said before him. He did not care

for the steward's black looks; Franklin, never conversational even at the

best of times and avoiding now the only topic near his heart, addressed

him only on matters of duty. And for that, too, Powell cared very

little. The woes of the apoplectic mate had begun to bore him long

before. Yet he felt lonely a bit at times. Therefore the little

intercourse with Mrs. Anthony either in one dog-watch or the other was

something to be looked forward to. The captain did not mind it. That

was evident from his manner. One night he inquired (they were then alone

on the poop) what they had been talking about that evening? Powell had

to confess that it was about the ship. Mrs. Anthony had been asking him

questions.

"Takes interest--eh?" jerked out the captain moving rapidly up and down

the weather side of the poop.