Nobody was to know this (his letters got mislaid
so quickly)--nobody whatever but the steward, who had been greatly
impressed by that disclosure. So much so, that he tried to give the cook
some idea of the "narrow squeak we all had" by saying solemnly, "The old
man himself had a dam' poor opinion of our chance."
"How do you know?" asked, contemptuously, the cook, an old soldier. "He
hasn't told you, maybe?"
"Well, he did give me a hint to that effect," the steward brazened it
out.
"Get along with you! He will be coming to tell me next," jeered the old
cook, over his shoulder.
Mrs. MacWhirr glanced farther, on the alert. ". . . Do what's fair. . .
Miserable objects . . . . Only three, with a broken leg each, and one
. . . Thought had better keep the matter quiet . . . hope to have done
the fair thing. . . ."
She let fall her hands. No: there was nothing more about coming home.
Must have been merely expressing a pious wish. Mrs. MacWhirr's mind was
set at ease, and a black marble clock, priced by the local jeweller at
3L. 18s. 6d., had a discreet stealthy tick.
The door flew open, and a girl in the long-legged, short-frocked period
of existence, flung into the room.
A lot of colourless, rather lanky hair was scattered over her shoulders.
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