The tirade stopped short, the fierce look vanished. "Ye see, Zing," he continued, with gentle gravity, "we could n't go, very well. She would n't want to be left, sick an' all. Women hev some queer idees, an' hev to be humored. Ain't like ships. You 'ain't no wife. Zing, now, hev ye?—An' I 've kind o' promised.—It's stay here, I guess."
As they left the wharf, a bell, somewhere in the town, broke into loud clamor. At the sound, a rusty Newfoundland dog, sole figure in the street, roused himself from a sunbath on the pink sand, howled funereally, and slunk off among the gray buildings.
"Noon—most dinner time," said Captain Christy. "Good-by, Zing. Same time to-morrer mornin'?"
"Yessir," said Zwinglius cheerfully. The sore subject would not be touched on for another fortnight. Where land and wharf met the two men parted.
"Pollick, cap'n?" roared Fisherman Gale, from his deserted market among the broken fish-flakes. He mopped his forehead with a red bandanna, then whisked away the flies.
