He was in his shirt-sleeves, without coat or vest; and I noticed that his dirty lawn was oddly plaited in front, and that about his ample paunch was buckled a broad belt of leather. Greased hip-boots encased his lower limbs, and the heels of these were drawn together as he bowed.
William Tyrwhitt—a master of nervous English—muttered "Great Scott!" under his breath.
"Permit me," said the stranger—and he held out to us a tin pannikin (produced from Heaven knows where) that swam with fragrance.
I shook my head. William Tyrwhitt, that fated man, did otherwise. He accepted the vessel and drained it.
"It smacks of all Castille," he said, handing it back with a sigh of ecstasy. "Who the devil are you, sir?"
The stranger gave a little crow.
"Peregrine Iron, sir, at your service—Captain Penegrine Iron, of the Raven sloop amongst others. You are very welcome to the run of my poor abode."
"Yours?" I murmured in confusion. "We owe you a thousand apologies."
"Not at all," he said, addressing all his courtesy to William. Me, since my rejection of his beaker, he took pains to ignore.
"Not at all," he said. "Your intrusion was quite natural under the circumstances. I take a pleasure in being your cicerone. This cabin (he waved his hand pompously)—a fancy of mine, sir, a fancy of mine. The actual material of the latest of my commands brought hither and adapted to the exigencies of shore life. It enables me to live eternally in the past—a most satisfying illusion. Come to-night and have a pipe and a glass with me."