Saltash treated him with a careless generosity that veiled a good deal of
consideration. He never questioned him with regard to his past, taking
him for granted in a fashion that set Toby completely at ease. No one
else had much to do with him. Larpent ignored him, and Murray the steward
regarded him with a deep suspicion that did not make for intimacy.

And Toby was happy. Day after day his cheery whistle arose over his work
while he polished Saltash's boots and brushed his clothes, or swept and
dusted the state-cabin in which he slept. He himself had returned to his
own small den that led out of Saltash's dressing-room, but the
intervening doors were kept open by Saltash's command. They were always
within hail of each other.

They went into perfect summer weather, and for a blissful week they
voyaged through blue seas with a cloudless sky overhead. Toby's white
skin began to tan. The sharp lines went out of his face. His laugh was
frequent and wholly care-free. He even developed a certain impudence in
his attitude towards his master to which Saltash extended the same
tolerance that he might have shown for the frolics of a favourite dog. He
accepted Toby's services, but he never treated him wholly as a servant.

It was an odd companionship which only the isolated life they led during
those few days could have developed along those particular lines. When
Saltash was bored he amused himself with his protege, teaching him
picquet and chess, and finding in him an apt and eager pupil. There was a
good deal of the gambler's spirit in Toby, and Saltash idly fostered it
because it gave him sport. He laughed at his opponent's keenness,
supplied stakes for the game, even good-naturedly let himself be beaten.

And then one day he detected Toby cheating. It was an end that he might