Now, not the least embarrassing part of the business was that his entrance, with a face set to any contingency, was to all appearance accepted by the company as in the natural order of custom. No one fell awkward over it, or assumed an air as of resenting his presence.
He hesitated a moment, then sat himself down in a chair opposite the two men.
“A dull evening, gentlemen,” said he; “with promise of a dirty night.”
Mr. Fern—by token of his scarlet face—was the one to answer in a high manner of politeness.
“The more fortunate we, sir, for being under cover,” he said.
One would have taken the persistent strain of speech to account for his apoplectic hue. If he were a rogue, he had none of the melodramatic hall-marks. His face, possibly from its consuming colour, was as expressionless as a brick, and his eyes, under their ragged brows, gleamed like cold and passionless agates.
“Fortunate, as you say,” said Mr. Tuke; “the more as it is like to stay midnight skulkers from disturbing the rest of peaceable folk.”
“Quite so, quite so, though I don’t trace the connection—eh, Brander?”
The sardonic fisherman, his arms folded, had been watching the new-comer from under covert brows. He gave a little contemptuous laugh.
“Perhaps the gentleman is a sufferer from nerves,” said he.