Always
the truth of it. Always. And well he knew it; and that's why he dared
not speak right out. Talking about workmen, alterations, cabins . . .
Phoo! . . . instead of a straightforward--'Wish me joy, Mr. Franklin!'
Yes, that was the way to let me know. God only knows what they
are--perhaps she isn't his daughter any more than she is . . . She
doesn't resemble that old fellow. Not a bit. Not a bit. It's very
awful. You may well open your mouth, young man. But for goodness' sake,
you who are mixed up with that lot, keep your eyes and ears open too in
case--in case of . . . I don't know what. Anything. One wonders what
can happen here at sea! Nothing. Yet when a man is called a jailer
behind his back."
Mr. Franklin hid his face in his hands for a moment and Powell shut his
mouth, which indeed had been open. He slipped out of the mess-room
noiselessly. "The mate's crazy," he thought. It was his firm
conviction. Nevertheless, that evening, he felt his inner tranquillity
disturbed at last by the force and obstinacy of this craze. He couldn't
dismiss it with the contempt it deserved.
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