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Whacker and Bronson laid their
heads together to devise a scheme by which this intolerable state
of things should be brought to an end. But that is to anticipate.
One day, whether by accident or design, Peter Blood came striding
down the wharf a full half-hour earlier than usual, and so met Miss
Bishop just issuing from the shed. He doffed his hat and stood
aside to give her passage. She took it, chin in the air, and eyes
which disdained to look anywhere where the sight of him was possible.
"Miss Arabella," said he, on a coaxing, pleading note.
She grew conscious of his presence, and looked him over with an air
that was faintly, mockingly searching.
"La!" said she. "It's the delicate-minded gentleman!"
Peter groaned. "Am I so hopelessly beyond forgiveness? I ask it
very humbly."
"What condescension!"
"It is cruel to mock me," said he, and adopted mock-humility. "After
all, I am but a slave. And you might be ill one of these days."
"What, then?"
"It would be humiliating to send for me if you treat me like an enemy.


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