“Why didn’t you tell me that your friend is a pugilist?” she demanded as she thrust the offending sheet in Douglas’s hand. “In the glove business!” she went on sarcastically. “That may be your idea of a joke, but I don’t see anything funny about it.” And without waiting for an answer she flung herself angrily from the room.
Douglas lighted a cigarette, which he smoked with short angry puffs as he walked the floor. He kicked viciously at an inoffensive footstool and sent it hurtling across the room. “Damn!” Then throwing the half-smoked cigarette in the fireplace, he switched off the light and sought his bed.
In spite of the late hour of his retiring, Donald was up early and was the first of the party to reach the dock. Gillis and Andy arrived soon after, the latter staggering manfully under his heavy pack, a rifle swinging loosely in his hand.
Donald stepped forward as Douglas appeared. His face fell as he saw that he was alone. “Isn’t your sister coming?” he asked.
Douglas avoided Donald’s direct gaze. He leaned over to fumble needlessly with the straps of his duffle-bags. “She’s peeved; saw your photograph in last night’s paper.”
“I’m sorry,” said Donald, obviously distressed.
“Janet makes me tired,” said Douglas irritably. “What if you did fight Garrieau? What difference does it make?”
“Your sister’s view-point is different,” answered Donald gloomily. “You must be curious to know more about me, Doug, yet you have never asked any questions.”
“I have often wondered,” admitted Douglas; “but if you wished me to know you would tell me. I don’t give a hang who you are or what you are. You suit me.”
The shrill blast of the steamer’s whistle smote their ears.
“’Ere, you blighters!” shouted Andy from the top deck, “are you goin’ on this blinkin’ picnic?”
The lines were cast off, the water boiled under the steamer’s stern. They backed slowly from the dock, swung about and headed for the Narrows. The scores of screaming gulls that accompanied them hovered over the deck, their keen eyes on the lookout for any bits of waste food that should fall in the steamer’s wake. Boats plied in and out, every kind of craft from small fishing-boat to ocean liner.
A bright sun, beaming with all the warmth and splendour of full morning, bathed inlet and mountain in a wide shower of gold. A strong westerly wind bucked an outgoing tide, the foam of tossing wave crests flashing white in the sunlight. The tumbling combers hissed and crashed against the sturdy bow of the boat, causing her to pitch jerkily. The salt breeze whipped a glow into the faces of the party gathered near the pilot-house and strummed noisily through the masts and superstructure. A yacht-like passenger steamer from Victoria, painted a pure white, swept past them, a smother of foam at her bow. A rakishly-built tug trudged cityward with a huge raft of logs in tow, a pillar of inky smoke streaming over her bow.