"I am going to leave it all to you, father. I'm sure you mean to do
right." She served the food as mistress at the board.
"It seems homelike with you here," said Captain Can-dage, meekly and
wistfully.
"I will stay with you, father, if it will make you happier."
"I sha'n't listen to anything of the sort. It ain't no place aboard here
for a girl."
Through the open port they heard the frequent clanging of the
steam-yacht's engine-room bell and the riot of her swishing screws as
she eased herself into an anchorage. She was very near them--so near
that they could hear the chatter of the voices of gay folk.
"What boat is that, father?"
"Another frosted-caker! I can't remember the name."
"It's the Oilyena or something like that. I forget fancy names pretty
quick," Otie informed her.
"Well, it ain't much use to load your mind down with that kind of
sculch," stated Captain Candage, poising a potato on his fork-tines and
peeling it, his elbows on the table. "That yacht and the kind of folks
that's aboard that yacht ain't of any account to folks like us."
The memory of some remarks which are uttered with peculiar fervor
remains with the utterer. Some time later--long after--Captain Candage
remembered that remark and informed himself that, outside of weather
predictions, he was a mighty poor prophet.