the jutting penthouse fringe of white brows, his eyes were like dark pools with fire in them,—brightness playing over depth.
"Look here, you Zing Turner," he demanded harshly. "What d 'ye mean by stayin' round here, marooned-like in this sort o' town, doin' nothin'? For four year you ain't done a tap, 'cept this kind o' foolin'—playin' at ship—for four year. What d 'ye mean?"
The poor mate was stunned. He shifted his feet, looked up, down, and sidewise, fear slowly erasing his smile.
"Why, cap'n," he stammered. "Why, cap'n"— This sudden examination of a latent leading motive seemed to torture him. "Why—I dunno—why, I was jes' waitin' round till we went another voyage, cap'n—jes' kind o’"—
"That's it!" cried the old man. "There ye are, again, waitin' round an' waitin' round. 'T ain't no use, an' you know it. This schooner 'll never put out no more, nor me neither. What's the use o' pretendin' to wait? You know how She feels about it."
