t as yet
smouldered, but at any moment, with or without aid of the twins, might
blaze. No one mentioned it, but you could smell it like smoke. And here
was that supreme care and danger, the plague, with all the earlier
precautions against it dropped, and with its constant triple question:
Who next of the sick? Who next of the well? Who next on either of the
decks below?

Two or three times Hugh came, sat awhile, spoke rarely, and went out.
What a spontaneous new deference every one accorded him and with what a
simple air of habitude he received it, though it seemed to mark him for
bereavement as well as for command! Why did he come? Why did he go?
wondered Ramsey. Not that she would hinder him, coming or going. She
could not guess that one chief object was care of her. She could only
recall how lately they two had stood behind the footlights and sung
their nonsense rhymes, partners in, and justified by, one brave,
merciful purpose. Ought he to let care, danger, and grief, as soon as
they had become acutely hers and his, drive him and her apart and strike
him dumb to her, as dumb as a big ship dropping her on a desert shore
and sailing away? Various subtleties of manner in others on the bench
convinced her that they were thinking of him and her and thinking these
same questions. What right had he to bring that upon her? Once, as he
went out, somebody unwittingly stung her keenly by remarking, to no one
in particular, that it was hard to see what should keep him so busy.

"D'you know," retorted Ned, "what running a boat is?"

"Why, yes, it's making things spin so smooth you can't see 'em spin,
ain't it?"

"Right. Ever fly a kite? Not with yo' eyes shet, hey? Well, a boat's a
hundred kites. Ain't she, Watsy?"

"Two hundred," said Watson, at the wheel.

"But Mr. Hugh ain't actually running this boat, is he?"

"I ain't said he wuz," replied Ned, and----

"He ain't a-runnin' no other," said Watson.

For an instant Ramsey was all pride for him they exalted; but in the
next instant a wave of resentment went through her as if their vaunting
were his; as if her pride were his own confessed, colossal vanity; as if
the price of his uplift were her belittlement. Never mind, he should
pay! Absurd, absurd; but she was harrowingly tired, lonely, idle,
grief-burdened, and desolate, and absurdity itself was relief. He should
pay, let his paying cost her double. Somehow, in some feminine, minute,
pinhole way, she would deflate