“Hammond, Zachariah Peter, Stoker First Class.”
“Right. I’ll just go in and tell the Captain, Hartington, before you begin your pow-wow. I shan’t be a second. Come along with me.”
They went aft together, and, while Hartington waited, the Commander passed into the Captain’s quarters, and presently reappeared.
“All right, Hartington. He’s waiting for you.”
Hartington entered. The Captain, a tall, grave man, who, but for his beard and moustache, might well have been taken for a judge, was leaning back in an armchair, his feet thrown up on to the fender that surrounded the empty fireplace.
“Ah, come in, Hartington, and sit down. You will find cigarettes on the small table.”
Hartington offered him the silver box.
“Will you have one, sir?”
“Thanks, no; I never smoke. You light up, though. I want a few words with you.”