“That's the captain yonder, sir,” whispered the waiter; and he pointed to a stout, weather-beaten man, who, with his hands in the pockets of his pilot-coat, was standing in front of the fire, smoking a cigar.
Although I had never seen him before, the features reminded me of some one I had met with, and suddenly I bethought me of the skipper with whom I had sailed from Ireland for Milford, and who had given me a letter for his brother “Bob,”—the very Robert Rogers now before me.
“Do you know this handwriting, Captain?” said I, draw-, ing the letter from my pocket-book.
“That's my brother Joe's,” said he, not offering to take the letter from my hand, or removing the cigar from his mouth, but talking with all the unconcern in life. “That's Joe's own scrawl, and there ain't a worse from this to himself.”
“The letter is for you,” said I, rather offended at his coolness.
“So I see. Stick it up there, over the chimney; Joe has never anything to say that won't keep.”
“It is a letter of introduction, sir,” said I, still more haughtily.
“And what if it be? Won't that keep? Who is it to introduce?”
“The humble individual before you, Captain Rogers.”
“So, that's it!” said he, slowly. “Well, read it out for me; for, to tell you the truth, there's no harder navigation to me than one of Joe's scrawls.”