Broughton heaved himself off the settee, catching a glimpse of himself—haggard, rumpled, and unkempt—in the mirror over the sideboard, as he did so.
“By George!” he said to himself, viewing his reflection, “Marianne would have looked down her nose at me if I’d turned up at Sibella Road like this. She’d have thought I’d been having a thick night, and small blame to her!”
There was no doubt that he presented a sorry spectacle. His trousers were still damp and splashed with mud-stains; his collar was creased and black with fog. He was stiff and tired in body; but his mind, naturally resilient, was infinitely refreshed by the long hours of sleep.
His spirits rose every minute. He whistled to himself as he rummaged out a blue suit from his cabin, washed, and shaved. He even indulged in a smile as he recalled the little lawyer and his two singlets.
After all, looked at in the light of day, things might have been a whole lot worse. There was always a chance that one of the three or four British firms who still owned sailing ships might buy the old girl. She had a great name; and people were beginning to be a bit sentimental about sailing ships now they were mostly gone. Or one of the big steamship lines might take her on for training purposes. If either of those things happened, it wasn’t likely they would want to put anyone else in command. It was common knowledge, though he said it himself, that no one could get what he could out of her. They would very likely put her into the nitrate trade. Of course it would be a bit of a come-down, still—any port in a storm! He remembered how sick he had been about it the first time she loaded coal at Newcastle. He had felt like going down on his knees and apologizing to her for the outrage! Or, again, there was lumber—plenty of charters were to be had up the West Coast. True, her size was against her; with her reputation and twice her tonnage she wouldn’t have had to wait long for a purchaser. But she would be a good investment, for all that. Why, damn it all, if he had the money loose he’d buy her himself without thinking twice about it! But twenty pounds a month doesn’t leave much margin for such luxuries as buying ships.
He paused half in and half out of his coat, struck by a sudden idea.
His half-brother Edward! Why, he was the very man—just the very man! Rolling in money that he made at that warehouse where he sold staylaces or something up in the City! The blighter was as sharp as a needle—always had been from the time when he used to drive bargains over blood alleys with the other kids at school. He’d see the advantage of a proposition like this fast enough! He could either lend the money on reasonable interest on the security of the ship, or if he liked he could buy her himself and let Broughton manage her for him.
He hurried over the rest of his toilet, swallowed a cup of tea and a rasher old Mike had got ready for him, and started off for the City, all on fire with his new project.
How did that piece of poetry go that Old Featherstone got the ship’s name from? He had read it once, but he wasn’t much at poetry: he couldn’t make much of it.