"Not so shy--not so shy," murmured Deep-water Peter, as if she had been
a wild filly coming up to his hand.
"She cannot hear you," Rackby interposed. The gleam of triumph in his
eye was plain.
"Can't hear?"
"Neither speak nor hear."
Peter Loud turned toward the girl again--and this time her blue eye met
his, and a spark was struck, not dying out instantly, such a spark as
might linger on the surface of a flint struck by steel.
Was it a certain trick of movement, or only the quickened current of his
blood that made Deep-water Peter know the truth?
"This is strange," he said.
That wind-blown voice of his, with its deepwater melodiousness, had
dropped to a whisper.
"Even providential," the harbor master returned, and his eye glittered.
Peter would have said something to that, but Rackby, with a stern hand
at his daughter's elbow, passed out of hearing.
Peter Loud was promptly taken in the coils of that voiceless beauty
whose speaking eye had met his so squarely. The mother had played him
false, as she had Jethro--but with Peter these affairs were easier
forgotten.
Within the week, as he was striding over the bare flats of
Pull-an'-be-Damned, he saw the flash of something white inside a weir.
The sun was low and dazzled him. He came close and saw that this was
Rackby's daughter.
Pages:
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365