“Now, I know this is springin’ things on you suddenlike,” said Talmadge, sympathetically. “And I know Clara’s got her liabilities. She can’t talk, but if y’all look at that from the other side, you’ll see that she won’t never give her man any back sass, neither.”

Eliot, who was standing back, leaning against the taffrail, realized that this scheming country boy had struck upon a way to rid himself of a responsibility that he no doubt had begun to tire of.

“Mr. Talmadge, there’s something you should know,” he said, stepping forward. He had had an inspiration. “Will’s already married.”

Talmadge flinched, then squinted skeptically at Will’s hand.

“Don’t see no weddin’ band.”

“He lost it during the storm,” explained Eliot, pleased with his quick thinking.

“So where’s his wife?”

“Boston.”

“Thought you’re from Maine. As I recollect, Boston ain’t in Maine.”

“We sailed the boat from Maine, but we’re all from Boston.”

Talmadge, not yet persuaded, pondered for a few moments.

“I can understand why you’d be a tad on the hesitatin’ side,” he said to Will, “and might want to fib to me about havin’ you a wife. Could be you need a day or two to think and pray on this your own self.”

Will, his powers of speech restored, said that he would not need to; he was well and truly wed. His own dear Susan awaited his return to Boston. Surely, Talmadge would not want Clara to be party to bigamy.

“Sure wouldn’t.” Bony hands to bony knees, he stood up and gave Will a censorious look. “But for a married feller to go kissin’ a young girl, that ain’t right. Maybe it’s all right where y’all come from, but not down here.”

“How many times do we have to tell you that I did not kiss her?”

“So she was fibbin’?”

“I’m afraid so,” Will said.

“That ain’t no small thing to fib about, in my book,” said Talmadge, maneuvering into his skiff. “I’m gone to ask her again, and if she says the same, one of two things is gone to happen: You and me, Will, is gone to have us a man-to-man talk, or Clara’s gone to get whupped, and good.”

“Oh, please don’t do that, Mr. Talmadge,” Eliot pleaded. “She hasn’t got all her wits and she probably didn’t know it was a fib.”

“You leave the upbringin’ part to me, son,” he said, pulling away. “Reckon we’ll find out what’s what soon enough.”

As soon as he was out of earshot, they huddled in a quick conference and decided that they had to leave, if not at that very moment, then certainly before tomorrow. Nathaniel had an idea for retrieving the spars; whatever work remained they could do themselves in Beaufort.