Not being able on the spur of the moment to think of a really satisfactory answer to this rather surprising remark, Anderton took refuge in silence, and went on stowing his gear.
“I said ‘Gorrelpyou!’” repeated Mr. Rumbold presently, with a decided touch of pugnacity in his tone.
Anderton supposed it was up to him to say something, so he said:
“Yes, I know. But why?”
“’Cos—thiship—thishipsh—unlucky—‘Alshdora’!” replied the mate. “Thashwy. Unlucky—‘Alshdora’! ’N if any man shaysh I’m drunk—then I shay—my lorshangemmen, I shmit if I can shay unlucky—unlucky—‘Alshdora’—I’m perfec’ly shober.... I’m perfec’ly shober—‘n I’m goin’ bed!”
At this point he let go of the door-jamb to which he had been holding, and proceeded with astonishing velocity on a diagonal course along the alleyway, concluding by sprawling all his length on the floor of the saloon.
“Wash marry thiship,” he enunciated gravely, sitting up and rubbing his head. “Furnishershall over blushop. Tablesh—chairsh—sho on. Mush make inquirations into thish—morramomin’!”
Here he again collapsed on to the floor, from which he had been slowly raising himself as he spoke; then, apparently deciding to abandon the attempt to resume the perpendicular, he set off at a surprising pace on all fours, and Anderton’s last glimpse of him was the soles of his boots as he vanished into his cabin.
He finished stowing his possessions, and then went ashore to make one or two small purchases. The sun was not quite gone, and the greater part of the dock was still flooded with rosy light. But the Unlucky “Altisidora” lay now all in shadow, except for the gilt vane at her main truck which flashed back the last rays of sunset. She looked aloof, alone, cut off from her fellows by some mysterious and unmerited doom—a ship under a dark star.