The conference was a lengthy one, so much so that Mr. Doyle had long grown tired of waiting when the tinkle of glasses indicated that it was drawing to a close.
“Well, here’s towards ye, Cap’n,” came the slightly raised voice of Seattle Sam, “an’ to our li’l’ trip together!”
The captain’s guest had hardly got out of the alleyway before Mr. Doyle came clattering down the companion with his eyes bulging.
“Is that big stiff goin’ to sign on wid us?” he inquired in a reverential whisper, his native Munster more honeyed than ever, as always in moments of deep emotion.
“He is, Mike,” returned the skipper, in accents broken by feeling.
“Can I have him in my watch?” asked Mr. Doyle.
“Mike, you can.”
“And can I—can I kick him whenever I like?” pursued the mate in the supplicating tones of a reciter giving an impersonation of a little child asking Santa Claus for a toy drum.
But at this point Captain Bascomb’s feelings overcame him altogether, and, leaping from his seat, he seized his astonished second in command firmly yet gracefully round the middle, and proceeded to give a highly spirited rendering of the Tango Argentina as performed in that country.
George, who was observing matters from his usual point of vantage, flew to describe the portent to his crony in the galley.