“TROUSERS!” she whispered. With a drawn cutlass in one hand and a cocked pistol in the other, Blueskin rushed up stairs. ” She picked at her sandwich idly. ” “What ball?” The question was rhetorical. Her father was right: Ruth must never know. At this juncture, Sir Cecil and his followers appeared at the threshold. What had shifted his casual interest was the visible prospect of a party of three who were coming down the packet gangplank. Satisfied in this respect, he flung himself into a chair, for his iron frame seldom required the indulgence of a bed, and sought an hour's repose before he began the villanies of another day. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. I shall find him yet. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say.
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