Bearse looked rather foolish. "Oh, we was just--just talkin'
about--er--this and that," he said, hastily. "Just this and that,
nothin' partic'lar. Cal'late I'll have to be runnin' along now,
Jed."
Jed Winslow selected a new and unpainted sailor from the pile near
him. He eyed it dreamily.
"Well, Gabe," he observed, "if you must, you must, I suppose.
Seems to me you're leavin' at the most interestin' time. We've
been talkin' about this and that, same as you say, and now you're
leavin' just as 'this' has got here. Maybe if you wait--wait--a--"
The sentence died away into nothingness. He had taken up the brush
which he used for the blue paint. There was a loose bristle in it.
He pulled this out and one or two more came with it.
"Hu-um!" he mused, absently.
Captain Sam was tired of waiting.
"Come, finish her out, Jed--finish her out," he urged. "What's the
rest of it?"
"I cal'late I'll run along now," said Mr. Bearse, nervously moving
toward the door.
"Hold on a minute," commanded the captain. "Jed hadn't finished
what he was sayin' to you. He generally talks like one of those
continued-in-our-next yarns in the magazines. Give us the
September installment, Jed--come."
Mr. Winslow smiled, a slow, whimsical smile that lit up his lean,
brown face and then passed away as slowly as it had come, lingering
for an instant at one corner of his mouth.
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