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Updated: May 10, 2025
I am reproached and vaguely uneasy at the sight of his gladness. "I'm going back to Mrs. Steele; she doesn't like me to leave her so long." I turn away and like a flash he is at my side. He draws my hand through his arm, holding it against his heart. I can feel the great leaps under the yachtman's gay jacket.
"No," said I, getting a great deal of pleasure out of seeing again, and thus intimately, his round, ruddy face like a yachtman's, not like a drinker's and his shifty, laughing brown eyes. "The game down town has given me enough excitement. I haven't had to continue it up town to keep my hand in."
In that mad race against wind and tide, I should have expected a little of the usual cursing and fighting from a mob which included a small percentage of downright roughs. But a tall man, dressed in ordinary yachtman's clothes, stood smoking on deck, and that was the present writer. The rough Englishmen did not know that I had been used to the company of the wildest desperadoes that live on earth.
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