Powell had never before felt this mysterious uneasiness so strongly as on
that evening when it had been his good fortune to make Mrs. Anthony laugh
a little by his artless prattle. Standing out of the way, he had watched
his captain walk the weather-side of the poop, he took full cognizance of
his liking for that inexplicably strange man and saw him swerve towards
the companion and go down below with sympathetic if utterly
uncomprehending eyes.
Shortly afterwards, Mr. Smith came up alone and manifested a desire for a
little conversation. He, too, if not so mysterious as the captain, was
not very comprehensible to Mr. Powell's uninformed candour. He often
favoured thus the second officer. His talk alluded somewhat
enigmatically and often without visible connection to Mr. Powell's
friendliness towards himself and his daughter. "For I am well aware that
we have no friends on board this ship, my dear young man," he would add,
"except yourself. Flora feels that too."
And Mr. Powell, flattered and embarrassed, could but emit a vague murmur
of protest. For the statement was true in a sense, though the fact was
in itself insignificant.
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