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On the second day out he was helped to a steamer-chair on deck; on the third day, his arm across Ruth's shoulder, he walked from his chair to the foremast and back. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. Her eyebrows, pulled down by the stress of thought, now resumed their normal arches; and pleased with her discovery, she smiled. "Well, you never can tell," he continued, lamely. Their conversation was conducted in the flash language, and, though unintelligible to Wood, was easily comprehended by this companion, who learnt, to her dismay, that the wounded man had received his hurt from her son, whose courage and dexterity formed the present subject of their discourse. He's got the gift of the gab. “Yeah, I’ve heard that story.
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