Commodore Junk Part 2

"Nay, nay, don't do that, man," whispered the big fellow, hoa.r.s.ely. "I durstent ask her again. It'll have to come from her this time."

"Not it. Ask her, Bart. She likes you."

"Ay, she likes me, bless her, and she's allus got a kind word for a fellow as wishes a'most as he was her dog."

"What's the good o' that, lad? Better be her man."

"Ay, of course; but if you can't be her man, why not be her dog. She would pat your head and pull your ears; but I allus feels as she'll never pat my head or pull my ears, Abel, lad; you see, I'm such a hugly one. Blubbering, eh?"

"Does nothing else. She don't let me see it; but I know. She don't sleep of a night, and she looks wild and queer, as Sanderson's la.s.s did who drowned herself."

"Then he has behaved very bad to her, Abel?"

"Ay, lad. I wish I had hold of him. I'd like to break his neck."

Bart put on his cap quickly, glanced toward the inner room, where there was a sound as of someone singing mournfully, and then in a quick, low whisper--

"Why not, lad?" said he; "why not?"

"Break his neck, Bart?"

The big fellow nodded.

"Will you join in and risk it?"

"Won't I?"

"Then we will," said Abel. "Curse him, he's most broke her heart."

"'Cause she loves him," growled Bart, thoughtfully.

"Yes, a silly soft thing. She might have known."

"Then we mustn't break his neck, Abel, lad," said Bart shaking his head.

Then, as if a bright thought had suddenly flashed across his brain--

"Look here. We'll wait for him, and then--I ar'n't afeard of his sword--we'll make him marry her."

"You don't want him to marry her," said Abel, staring, and utilising the time by stropping his knife on his boot.

"Nay, I can do what she wants, I will as long as I live."

"Ah! you always was fond of her, Bart," said Abel, slowly.

"Ay, I always was, and always shall be, my lad. But look here,"

whispered Bart, leaning towards his companion; "if he says he won't marry her--"

"Ah! suppose he says he won't!" said Abel to fill up a pause, for Bart stood staring at him.

"If he says he won't, and goes and marries that fine madam--will you do it?"

"I'll do anything you'll do, mate," said Abel in a low voice.

"Then we'll make him, my lad."

"Hist!" whispered Abel, as the inner door opened, and Mary entered the room, looking haggard and wild, to gaze sharply from one to the other, as if she suspected that they had been making her the subject of their conversation.

"How do, Mary?" said Bart, in a consciously awkward fashion.

"Ah, Bart!" she said, coldly, as she gazed full in his eyes till he dropped his own and moved toward the door.

"I'm just going to have a look at my boat, Abel, lad," he said. "Coming down the sh.o.r.e?"

Abel nodded, and Bart shuffled out of the doorway, uttering a sigh of relief as soon as he was in the open air; and taking off his flat fur cap, he wiped the drops of perspiration from his brow.

"She's too much for me, somehow," he muttered, as he sauntered down towards the sh.o.r.e. "I allus thought as being in love with a gell would be very nice, but it ar'n't. She's too much for me."

"What were you and Bart Wrigley talking about?" said Mary Dell, as soon as she was alone with her brother.

"You," said Abel, going on sc.r.a.ping his netting-needle.

"What about me?"

"All sorts o' things."

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean? Why, you know. About your being a fool--about the fine captain and his new sweetheart. Why, you might ha' knowed, Mary."

"Look here, Abel," cried Mary, catching him by the wrist, and dragging at it so that he started to his feet and they stood face to face, the stunted brother and the well-grown girl wonderfully equal in size, and extremely alike in physique and air; "if you dare to talk to me again like that, we shall quarrel."

"Well, let's quarrel, then."

"What?" cried Mary, staring, for this was a new phase in her brother's character.

"I say, let's quarrel, then," cried Abel, folding his arms. "Do you think I've been blind? Do you think I haven't seen what's been going on, and how that man has served you? Why, it has nearly broken poor old Bart's heart."

"Abel!"

"I don't care, Polly, I will speak now. You don't like Bart."

"I do. He is a good true fellow as ever stepped, but--"

"Yes, I know. It ar'n't nat'ral or you to like him as he likes you; but you've been a fool, Polly, to listen to that fine jack-a-dandy; and-- curse him! I'll half-kill him next time we meet!"

Mary tried to speak, but her emotion choked her.

"You--you don't know what you are saying," she panted at last.