He wanted to talk about the
splendid English coast with its gemlike villages set in green, the
red-sailed fishing smacks, the social gulls feeding in the long trail
behind the dock. It is difficult to be reserved under such conditions.
Then, too, Caradoc was so obviously ill, Madden felt sorry for the
fellow.
As for the Englishman, he paid little attention to his working mate, but
languidly splashed the iron wall, and himself, with red paint. After
some two hours' work, he stood up on the platform as if sore, made an
irresolute start, finally climbing the rope ladder to the top. Madden
wondered about the queer fellow, but was rather relieved by his absence.
Within twenty or thirty minutes, however, he was back, but in
perceptibly better spirits. He worked briskly for a few minutes, then
dropped brush in pail and turned to Leonard as if no shadow had crossed
their acquaintance.
"Well, Madden, we can hardly blame the old Phoenicians for guarding the
secret of the Cassiterides, can we?"
The American almost fell off the platform in surprise.
"Why--er--no, I don't blame 'em," he blurted, not having a ghost of a
notion what the Englishman was talking about. "No, I--I never blamed 'em
a bit--never did."
"Those were poetic days, Madden."
The American stared, his mind as much at sea as his body.
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