“In the dark?”
“In the dark, I tell you.”
“Then most likely, Pilot, you’d ha’ run The Witch on the Three Sisters’ reefs, or Frenchman’s Island. I stood off an’ on, back’ard an’ forrard.”
“An’ shot yourself on to the rocks.”
The third man said nothing. He was looking at the Pilot’s house and the flowers while the two captains paused to argue, and fidgeted with the blanket he wore over his shoulders.
“Well, come in, come in,” said the Pilot. “We’ll finish the argyment over a glass an’ a snack.” And then it was that he had roared for his daughter, who, leaving Amiria to finish her toilet, tripped downstairs to meet her father.
“Why, Rosebud, my gal, I’ve been calling this half-hour,” exclaimed the gruff old Pilot. “An’ here’s two gentlemen I’ve brought you, two shipwrecked sailors—Cap’n Sartoris, of The Mersey Witch, and Mr. Scarlett.” His voice sounded like the rattling of nails in a keg, and his manner was as rough as his voice.
Each blanketed man stepped awkwardly forward and shook hands with the girl, first the captain, and then the tall, uncomfortable-looking, younger man, who turned the colour indicated by his name.
“What they want is a rig-out,” rumbled the Pilot of Timber Town; “some coats, Rosebud; some shirts, and a good feed.” The grizzled old mariner’s face broke into a grim smile. “I’m Cap’n Summerhayes, an’t I? I’m Pilot o’ this port, an’t I?—an’ Harbour Master, in a manner o’ speaking? Very good, my gal. In all those capacities—regardless that I’m your dad—I tell you to make these gen’lemen comfortable, as if they were at home; for you never know, Rosebud, when you may be entertaining a husband unawares. You never know.” And, chuckling, the old fellow led the shipwrecked men into his bedroom.
When they had been provided with suits belonging to the Pilot, they were shown into the parlour, where they sat with their host upon oak chairs round a battered, polished table, with no cloth upon it.