“Well, you’ve taken a weight off my mind.” 

 “A mind, I should imagine, scarcely constructed to bear great weights.” 

 “I’ll be going. Haven’t had breakfast yet. Too worried to eat breakfast. Relieved now. This is where three eggs and a rasher of ham get cut off in their prime. I feel I can rely on you.” 

 “You can!” 

 “Then I’ll say good-bye.” 

 “Good-bye.” 

 “I mean really good-bye. I’m sailing for England on Saturday on the ‘Atlantic.’” 

 “Indeed? My son will be your fellow-traveller.” 

 Bream Mortimer looked somewhat apprehensive. 

 “You won’t tell him that I was the one who spilled the beans?” 

 “I beg your pardon?” 

 “You won’t wise him up that I threw a spanner into the machinery?” 

 “I do not understand you.” 

 “You won’t tell him that I crabbed his act ... gave the thing away ... gummed the game?” 

 “I shall not mention your chivalrous intervention.” 

 “Chivalrous?” said Bream Mortimer a little doubtfully. “I don’t know that I’d call it absolutely chivalrous. Of course, all’s fair in love and war. Well, I’m glad you’re going to keep my share in the business under your hat. It might have been awkward meeting him on board.” 

 “You are not likely to meet Eustace on board. He is a very indifferent sailor and spends most of his time in his cabin.” 

 “That’s good! Saves a lot of awkwardness. Well, good-bye.” 

 “Good-bye. When you reach England, remember me to your father.” 

 Prev. P 12/190 next