His tone was bitter. Her reproach, no doubt justified, cut deeply.

"No, I'm beginning to become a little afraid--afraid that the men may get
out of hand. I don't care what you and your father think, but I believe
Cunningham honestly wishes us to reach the Catwick without any conflict."

"Ah, Cunningham!"

"There you go again--angry and bitter! Why can't you take it sensibly,
like your father?"

"My father doesn't happen to be----"

He stopped with mystifying abruptness.

"Doesn't happen to be what?"

"The sort of fool I am!"

"You're not so good a comrade as you were."

"Can't you understand? I've been stood upon my head. The worry about you
on one side and the contact with my father on the other would be
sufficient. But Cunningham and this pirate crew as a tail to the kite!
But, thank God, I had the wit to come in search of you!"

"I thank God every minute, Denny! You are very strong," she added, shyly.

"Glad of that, too. But I repeat, I've lost the parlour varnish and the
art of parlour talk. For seven years I've been wandering in strange
places, most of them hard; so I say what I think and act on the spur. That
dog had liquor on his breath. Is Cunningham secretly letting them into the
dry-stores?"