“How—lost?”
Mr. Shelf mopped his forehead again. “Don’t steamers,” he asked, “don’t they sometimes have sad accidents which—which cause them to blow up?”
“Such things have been known. But it’s rather rough on the crew, don’t you think?”
“Oh, poor fellows, yes. But a sailor’s life is always hazardous. Indeed, what can he expect with wages at their present ruinous rate? Shipowners must live.”
“Oh, you beauty!” said Patrick Onslow.
“I must ask you,” cried Shelf with a sudden burst of sourness, “to refrain from these comments, sir. But tell me, before I go any further in this confidence, am I to count upon your assistance?”
“That depends upon many things. To begin with, there’ll have to be modifications before I dabble. I’m not obtrusively squeamish about human life—my own, or other people’s. On occasion I bagged my man—because he had twice shot at me. Still, piracy, complicated with what practically amounts to murder, is an art which I haven’t trafficked in as yet; and, curious to relate, I don’t intend to begin. Your scheme is delicious in its cold-bloodedness; but it would look better if it were toned down a trifle. By the way, better help yourself to a drink. Your nerves are in such a joggle, that I fancy you’ll faint if you don’t. I notice there’s no blue ribbon on your evening dress. Humph! That’s a second mate’s nip—four fingers, if it’s a drop; apparently you are used to this. Tell me now, what honorarium do you propose I should take for engineering this piece of rascality in your favor?”
“I will give you five hundred pounds!”
“Now, would you, really? Not even guineas?”