"This is an event," he said, "to be entered in the log.—Sindbad!"
The ex-seaman who had acted as my guide pulled at his forelock.
"Ay, ay, cap'n!"
"Take this gentleman's things to the guestroom upstairs."
"The cabin to starboard? Werry good, cap'n."
Heavens! such a voice! There were fog, gale, piracy, rum, and combat in it.
"Sindbad," said Norman, in answer to my look, "is one of my indiscretions—like 'Arcadia.' He turned up here one day with such a tale of the sea as would have shamed Robert Louis Stevenson at his best. So far as I can discover, he has been in every naval fight since Aboukir Bay. He's a bit hazy on the Jutland scrap, but hints darkly at the possibility of an invasion by Spain. He is convinced that the Armada is only hiding and waiting its time."
In spite of myself, I laughed.
"As he refused to go, I decided to employ him as a man-of-all-work, and, as he appeared to have forgotten his own name, I gave him that of 'Sindbad,' which pleased him as much as me. As a result of my engaging him, the lawn you stand on is the quarter-deck which he never fails to salute. As nearly as I can discover, we are sailing a perpetual voyage—you see by this view that the illusion is possible—and we're living in the imminent danger and hope of an attack by the Spanish. By the way, old man, would you rather go upstairs and clean up? Are you cold sitting there? Sometimes, being so comfortable myself, I forget all about my guests."
I protested, sincerely, that I was quite contented where I was.