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.
Pages:
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600