If Eustace Hignett had been
a full-page drawing in a magazine with "My dear fellow, I always
wear Sigsbee's Superfine Featherweight!" printed underneath him, he
could not have looked more pleased with himself.
"Hullo!" he said. "I was wondering where you had got to."
"Never mind," said Sam coldly, "where I had got to! Where did you get
to, and why? You poor, miserable worm," he went on in a burst of
generous indignation, "what have you to say for yourself? What do you
mean by dashing away like that and killing my little entertainment?"
"Awfully sorry, old man. I hadn't foreseen the cigar. I was bearing up
tolerably well till I began to sniff the smoke. Then everything seemed
to go black--I don't mean you, of course. You were black already--and I
got the feeling that I simply must get on deck and drown myself."
"Well, why didn't you?" demanded Sam, with a strong sense of injury.
"I might have forgiven you then. But to come down here and find you
singing...."
A soft light came into Eustace Hignett's eyes.
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