This was so obviously a lie that it only made matters worse, and they parted a trifle coolly; Anderton refusing an invitation to enjoy the pleasures of London that evening, as displayed at Wilson’s Music Hall, at which he would fairly have jumped less than an hour ago.
The morose mate was still sitting in the messroom, surrounded by his customary aura of “frizzly dick,” when he got back to Well Street and burst in upon him with his news.
He withdrew the fork from the fire, carefully inspected its burden and after an interval of profound thought remarked:
“O-oh—her!”
His “O-oh—her” was, if anything, more pregnant with meaning than Charnock’s.
“Well?” snapped Anderton. He was by now getting thoroughly exasperated. “Well? What about ‘Oh—her ‘? What’s wrong with her anyway?”
The mate thoughtfully blew the ashes off his latest culinary triumph and thrust it into his mouth.
“She’s no’ got a gude name!” he said, indistinctly, but none the less darkly.
“Not a good name—what’s that mean, pray?” demanded Anderton angrily.
“Just that,” said the mate laconically, and went on toasting cheese.