“Although I have heard something of the changes of events, from her,” resumed the Instrument-maker, taking his old spectacles from his pocket, and putting them on his forehead in his old manner, “they are so great and unexpected, and I am so overpowered by the sight of my dear boy, and by the,”—glancing at the downcast eyes of Florence, and not attempting to finish the sentence—“that I—I can’t say much tonight. But my dear Ned Cuttle, why didn’t you write?”
The astonishment depicted in the Captain’s features positively frightened Mr Toots, whose eyes were quite fixed by it, so that he could not withdraw them from his face.
“Write!” echoed the Captain. “Write, Sol Gills?”
“Ay,” said the old man, “either to Barbados, or Jamaica, or Demerara, that was what I asked.”
“What you asked, Sol Gills?” repeated the Captain.
“Ay,” said the old man. “Don’t you know, Ned? Sure you have not forgotten? Every time I wrote to you.”
The Captain took off his glazed hat, hung it on his hook, and smoothing his hair from behind with his hand, sat gazing at the group around him: a perfect image of wondering resignation.
“You don’t appear to understand me, Ned!” observed old Sol.
“Sol Gills,” returned the Captain, after staring at him and the rest for a long time, without speaking, “I’m gone about and adrift. Pay out a word or two respecting them adwenturs, will you! Can’t I bring up, nohows? Nohows?” said the Captain, ruminating, and staring all round.
“You know, Ned,” said Sol Gills, “why I left here. Did you open my packet, Ned?”