Part 33 (1/2)
”What are you going to do with that, Philip?” asked Marian, as I returned to the standing-room, with the rifle in my hand.
”I may have occasion to use it; but it is not loaded.”
”Don't shoot any one, Philip--pray don't.”
”I shall not be likely to do so while the rifle is not loaded.”
”But you may do something you don't intend to do.”
”I certainly don't intend to fire a rifle that isn't loaded; and I shall not shoot any one.”
I had not yet decided what to do, though a desperate scheme was flitting through my mind. If Mr. Whippleton slept in the cabin of the Florina that night, it would be possible to board the yacht by stealth in the darkness, fall upon him, and bind him hand and foot. The plan looked practicable to me, and though I had not yet arranged the details of it in my mind, or considered its difficulties, I was disposed to undertake it. I did not care, therefore, to have the negro return to the Florina with the intelligence that I was in possession of the Marian. I intended, therefore, to make him sleep on board of our boat.
Before I had fully determined in what manner I should detain the cook on board of the Marian, the boat came alongside. I turned my head away from the man, so that her need not discover that I was not Mr.
Waterford before he came on board. I opened a conversation with Miss Collingsby, and appeared to take no notice of the arrival. The negro was evidently one of the lazy kind, for he did not offer to come on board.
[Ill.u.s.tration: OLD PETE COMES AFTER INFORMATION. Page 247.]
”How do you do, Mr. Waterford?” said the cook, as he brought his boat under the quarter of the yacht.
”How do you do?” I replied, in a gruff tone.
”Gorrificious! Don't you know old Peter?” exclaimed the cook, apparently wounded at my want of recognition of him.
”How are you, old Peter?” I added, coughing violently to disguise my voice.
”Gorrificious, Mr. Waterford! I reckon you've got a bad cold. I've got a letter for you from Mr. Whippleton,” continued the cook.
”Take it--will you, Marian?” I added, still coughing. ”I don't want him to see me;” and I retreated into the cabin.
”Thank you miss,” said Peter, as he delivered the letter. ”I'm right down sorry Mr. Waterford has got such a terrible cough--on his wedding day, too, miss. Gorrificious, Miss Collingsby! Mr. Waterford is a lucky gentleman; but he desarves you. He's a fine gentleman--liberal to old Peter and all the boys.”
Marian made no reply to this speech, though, when she appeared in the cabin, her cheeks and forehead were crimson with confusion.
”Did you hear what old Peter said,” she asked.
”I did; and it is plain enough that Mr. Whippleton is in the secret, and has even told it to his cook.”
”If I ever get home again, I shall not disobey my father. To think that the wretch told Mr. Whippleton all about it beforehand.”
”I supposed he had,” I replied, as I opened the letter.
”What does he say, Philip?” asked Marian, curiously.
”'Dear Ben'--that's the way he begins. 'How is the fawn?'”
”The fawn?”