"No good, I'll warrant," blared the other, dropping his jaw and pipe in suspicion.
"It's too fine weather to be unreasonable, Hiram." He looked around. Sally was at the other end of the porch, trying, this way and that, the new scarf which he had brought her as the tribute which all returning captains must render. It was from the Argentine and, as usual, bright red—in fact, as Sally afterwards remarked to plump Stella Appleby, "It's funny how men always choose crimson or scarlet—never lavender, or mauve, or any of the softer tints. I guess they're just barbarians after all." Anyway the combination,—scarlet, and black hair and eyes, was bewitching enough, and it quite satisfied the godfather. He bent forward confidentially. "He's a good boy, he'd take care of her, and—" he nodded towards the pirouetting scarlet and black again, "he'd keep her that way. We're not as young as we once were, you know."
"Don't interfere there, Harvey Brent. I tell you I don't like the Boltwood timber—it don't build good ships."
"What are you trying, anyway? A little play all your own—nursing a grudge against an old man, and turning his only son from your door, and all the time spillin' your fool sailor's lingo all over the stage. Just throw in a few 'Shiver-me-timbers,' and you could charge admission. I thought you were a real sailor, Hiram, not a play actor!"
The wing-and-wing whiskers were luffing agitatedly, and under the shaking wattles the Adam's apple worked convulsively, like a floater jerked up and down by a freshly-hooked
