“Oil!” he growled as he ran the boat ashore. “I’ll oil ’im and the man wot sold it too!” (More hopes in regard to the soul, eyes, limbs, and internal organs of the offender.) “A pretty fine fool ’e made o’ me, standin’ there burnin’ my fingers and a box of matches trying to find out what was wrong. Oil! Call that splutterin’ stuff oil! Why, I might as well ’ave tried to set fire to the river.”
Still swearing, he made fast the dinghy and proceeded, can in hand, in the direction of the village.
After a time I started to follow, and overtook him just as he was passing my cottage.
“Good-night,” I called out over my shoulder in passing, as is the custom in the country.
He replied by bidding me go to a place which, though it may likely enough have been his ultimate destination, I sincerely hope may never be mine nor the reader’s.
“I’m sure I know that dulcet voice,” I said, stopping and wheeling round. “It must be, it is, the genial Hughes. How are you, my worthy fellow?”
The worthy fellow intimated that his health was not noticeably affected for the better by the sight of me.
“Oh, don’t say that,” I said. “You were most hospitable to me in the matter of drinks when I had the pleasure of spending a very delightful hour in your company on board the ‘Cuban Queen’ one evening. Pray let me return the compliment. This is my cottage, and I’ve got some excellent whisky aboard. Won’t you come in and have a glass?”
This was a temptation not to be withstood, and he replied a little more civilly that he “didn’t mind,” and even unbent so far as to answer Yes or No to one or two casual remarks I made.
When he rose to go, some spirit of mischief prompted me to ask him what he had in the oilcan, and this, apparently recalling his grievance, put him in the worst of tempers again, for he snatched at it, savagely blurting out,—