He ate well, drank sparingly, and when not listening to Saltash's somewhat spasmodic conversation appeared immersed in thought. When the meal was over, he refused coffee, and rose to go on deck.
Then, abruptly, Saltash stayed him. "Larpent, wait a minute—unless you're in a hurry! Have a cigar with me!"
Larpent paused, looking across at the dark, restless face with the air of a man making a minute calculation. "Shall we smoke on deck, my lord?" he said at length.
Saltash sprang up as though he moved on wires. "Yes, all right. Get the cigars, Murray!" he commanded the steward; and to Larpent as the man went to obey, "That's decent of you. Thought you were going to refuse. I was damned offensive a while back. Accept my apologies! Fact is—I'm fed up with this show. Sorry if I disappoint you, but I'm going home."
"You never disappoint me, my lord," said Larpent, with his enigmatical smile.
Saltash gave him a keen look and uttered a laugh that was also not without its edge. "I like you, Larpent," he said. "You always tell the truth. Well, let's go! We shan't make Jamaica this trip, but it doesn't matter. In any case, it's a shame to miss the spring in England."
"Or the Spring Meetings?" suggested Larpent, as he chose his cigar.
"Quite so," said Saltash, almost with relief. "My old trainer—the man who bought my racing-stud—always looks for me about now. You ought to meet him by the way. He is another speaker of cruel truths."
He thrust a hand through his captain's arm as they left the saloon, and they went on deck together. Though Larpent never made any sign of resentment, yet was Saltash never wholly at his ease when he knew that he had taxed his forbearance until he had made amends. He took the trouble to make himself unusually agreeable as they settled down to their smoke.
It was a night of glorious stars, the sea one vast stretch of silver ripples, through which the yacht ran smoothly, leaving a wide white trail behind her. Saltash lay in a deck-chair with his face to the sky, but his attitude was utterly lacking in the solid repose that characterized his companion. He smoked his cigar badly, with impatient pulls. When it was half gone, he suddenly swore and flung it overboard.
"Larpent," he said, breaking a silence, "if you were a damned rotter—like me—what should you do with yourself?"
Larpent turned his head and quietly surveyed him. "I shouldn't run a home for waifs and strays," he said deliberately.
Saltash made a sharp movement. "Then I suppose you'd leave 'em in the gutter to starve," he said, with suppressed vehemence.
"No, I shouldn't. I'd pay someone else—someone who wasn't what you called yourself just now—to look after 'em." Larpent's voice was eminently practical if somewhat devoid of sympathy. "Gutter-snipes are damned quick to pick up—things they ought not," he observed dryly.
Saltash stirred uncomfortably in his chair as though something pricked him. "Think I'm a contaminating influence?" he said.
Larpent shrugged his shoulders. "It's not for me to say. All diseases are not catching—any more than they are incurable."
"Ho!" Saltash laughed suddenly and rather bitterly. "Are you suggesting—a cure?"
Larpent turned his head back again and puffed a cloud of smoke upwards.
"There's a cure for most things," he observed.
"Can the Ethiopian change his skin?" gibed Saltash.
Larpent was silent for a space. Then: "A painful process no doubt!" he said. "But more wonderful things have happened."
"Pshaw!" said Saltash.
Nevertheless when Larpent rose a little later and bade him good-night, he reached up a couple of fingers in careless comradeship.
"Good-night, old fellow! Thanks for putting up with me! Sure you don't want to kick me?"
"Not when you're kicking yourself," said Larpent with a grim hint of humour.
He took the extended fingers and received a wiry handclasp that caused him faint surprise. But then, he reflected as he went away, he had always known Saltash to be a queer devil, oddly balanced, curiously impulsive, strangely irresponsible, possessing through all a charm which seldom failed to hold its own. He realized by instinct that Saltash was wrestling with himself that night, but, though he knew him better than did many, he would not have staked anything on the result. There were two selves in Saltash and, in Larpent's opinion, one was as strong as the other.
It was nearly an hour later that Saltash, prowling to and fro in the starlight, became suddenly aware of a figure, small and slight, with gleaming brass buttons, standing behind his vacant chair. He turned sharply to look at it, some inexplicable emotion twitching his dark face. Then abruptly he moved towards it, stood for a second as one in doubt, then turned and sat down in silence.
But as he settled himself he stretched forth an arm with a snap of the fingers, and in a flash Toby was kneeling by his side. The arm closed around him like a spring, and Toby uttered a low, tense sob and hid his face.
Thereafter for a while there was no sound beside the throb of engines and wash of water. Saltash sat absolutely motionless with eyes half-closed. Save for the vitality of his hold, he might have been on the verge of slumber. And Toby, crouched with his head in his hands, was as a carven image, neither stirring nor seeming to breathe.
The man moved at length, flicking his eyes open as though some unseen force had prodded him into action. He spoke with a brevity that might have denoted some sternness but for the close grip of his arm.
"Have you been sulking all this time?"
Toby started at his voice and burrowed a little deeper. "No, sir."
"Well, why didn't you come before?" said Saltash.
"I was—afraid," whispered Toby piteously.
"Afraid! Why on earth?" Saltash's hand suddenly found and fondled the fair head. His speech was no longer curt, but gentle, with a half-quizzical tenderness. "Aren't you rather an ass, boy? What was there to be afraid of?"
Toby could not tell him. He only, after a moment, slipped down in a sitting position by Saltash's side and rested with more assurance against the encircling arm.
"Come! I didn't hurt you much," said Saltash.
"No, sir. You didn't hurt me—at all." Toby stammered a little.
"You—you—you meant—not to hurt me, didn't you?"
"I must hit harder next time evidently," observed Saltash, with a squeeze of the narrow shoulders.
"No, sir—no, sir! There shan't be—a next time!" Toby assured him with nervous vehemence. "I only did it just to see—just to see—I'll never do it again, sir."
"Just to see what?" asked Saltash curiously.
But again Toby could not explain himself, and he did not press him.
"Well, you didn't do it at all well," he remarked. "I shouldn't certainly make a profession of it if I were you. It's plainly not your métier."
He
