"Did he strike you as the usual type of man a factory agent's made of?"
"Why, no."
"Gentleman, wasn't he, or had been once? Always used to hitch up the knees of his pyjamas when he sat down; spoke well; knew Latin; could swear round any man on the Coast when he was that side out; and had a pleasant way of making you feel you were dirt when the mood took him that way?"
Carter laughed. "He had some characteristic little ways."
"Ever strike you he'd been a soldier once?"
"I suppose it did."
"Well, me lad, when I was tied up by that Edmondson factory, a boat swung up to my ladder and a military party stepped out. Quite the swell, I can tell you: nobby white helmet, hair cut with scissors, smart gray mustache, gray imperial bristling underneath it, clean-shaved chin, white drill coat with concertina pockets, white drill pants with a crease down the shin, latest thing in pipe-clayed shoes. If it hadn't been for the old trick with the eye-glass and the black ribbon, I take my dick I shouldn't have known him.
"'Hullo Swizzle-Stick Smith,' said I, 'you are a howler. Whose kit have you been robbing?'
"'Captain Image,' says he, 'allow me—ar—to present to you Mr. Smith, a new acquaintance. It is not—ar—my wish to be mistaken for any of your discreditable—ar—pot companions of the past.' That to me, and on my own deck, me lad. What do you think of that?"
"I bet you boiled."