I turned also, and I was not prepossessed by Mr. Viney. His face—a face no doubt originally pale and pasty, but too long sun-burned to revert to anything but yellow in these later years of shore-life—his yellow face was ever stretched in an uneasy grin, a grin that might mean either propitiation or malice, and remained the same for both. He had the watery eyes and the goatee beard that were not uncommon among seamen, and in total I thought he much resembled one of those same hang-dog fellows that stood at corners and leaned on posts in the neighbourhood, making a mysterious living out of sailors; one of them, that is to say, in a superior suit of clothes that seemed too good for him. I suppose he may have been an inch taller than Grandfather Nat; but in the contrast between them he seemed very small and mean.
He offered his hand with a stealthy gesture, rather as though he were trying to pick my grandfather's waistcoat pocket; so that the old man stared at the hand for a moment, as if to see what he would be at, before he shook it.
"Down in the world again, Cap'en Nat," said Viney, with a shrug.
"Ay, I heard," answered Captain Nat. "I'm very sorry; but there—perhaps you'll be up again soon...."
"I come to ask you about something," Viney proceeded, as they walked away toward the bar-parlour door. "Something you'll tell me, bein' an old shipmate, if you can find out, I'm sure. Can we go into your place? No, there's a woman there."
"Only one as does washin' up an' such. I'll send her upstairs if you like."
"No, out here's best; we'll walk up and down; people get hangin' round doors an' keyholes in a place like that. Here we can see who's near us."
"What, secrets?"
"Ay." Viney gave an ugly twist to his grin. "I know some o' yours—one big un' at any rate, Cap'en Nat, don't I? So I can afford to let you into a little 'un o' mine, seein' I can't help it. Now I'd like to know if you've seen anything of Marr."