“Oh—­tripod, Mr. Tubbs?” I said inquiringly.

“Yes, sure,” he returned undaunted.  “Them camera supports is named for it, you know.  But of course this gay gink of a Sandy had to come buttin’ in.  Too bad the Honorable Bertie had partook so free.  He’d have looked the part all right when it come to rescuin’ beauty in distress.  But Fortune bein’ a lady and naturally capricious, she hands the stunt over to old Sobersides here.”

Just then old Sobersides cut across the flow of Mr. Tubbs’s sprightly conversation and with a certain harshness of tone asked Captain Magnus if he had had good sport on the other side of the island.  Captain Magnus, as usual, had seemed to feel that time consecrated to eating was wasted in conversation.  At this point-blank question he started confusedly, stuttered, and finally explained that though he had taken a rifle he had carried along pistol cartridges, so had come home with an empty bag.

At this moment I happened to be looking at Cookie, who was setting down a dish before Mr. Tubbs.  The negro started visibly, and rolled his eyes at Captain Magnus with astonishment depicted in every dusky feature.  He said nothing, although wont to take part in our conversation as it suited him, but I saw him shake his great grizzled head in a disturbed and puzzled fashion as he turned away.

After this a chill settled on the table.  You felt a disturbance in the air, as though wireless currents were crossing and recrossing in general confusion.  Mr. Tubbs began again on the topic of my rescue, and said it was too bad Mr. Shaw’s name wasn’t Paul, because then we’d be Paul and Virginia, he, he!  My aunt said encouragingly, how true! because they had lived on an island, hadn’t they?  She had read the book many years ago, and had mostly forgotten it, not having Mr. Tubbs’s marvelous memory, but she believed there was something quite sad about the end, though very sweet.  She agreed with Mr. Tubbs that Mr. Vane would have looked most picturesque going to the rescue on account of his sash, and it was too bad he had not been able, but never mind, it was most kind of Mr. Shaw, and she was sure her niece appreciated it though she was afraid she hadn’t thanked Mr. Shaw properly.

By this time it was perfectly clear that Mr. Shaw had been most inconsiderate in dashing out after me in that thoughtless manner.  He should have waked Cuthbert Vane and helped him to array himself becomingly in the sash and then sent for a moving-picture man to go out in another boat and immortalize the touching scene.  All this came seething to my lips, but I managed to suppress it.  It was only on Cuthbert Vane’s account.  As for my aunt and Mr. Tubbs, I could have bumped their heads together as remorselessly as two cocoanuts.  I understood Aunt Jane, of course.  In spite of the Honorable Cuthbert’s recent lapse, her imagination still played about certain little cards which should announce to an envious world my engagement to the Honorable Cuthbert Patrick Ruthmore Vane, of High Staunton Manor, Kent.  So such a faux pas as my rescue from drowning by a penniless Scotch seaman couldn’t but figure in her mind as a grievance.