Ready for the road, he comes to my room. Sleepy-eyed, yawning. "Four o'clock! Ugh! Who ever heard of a man going to sea at four in the morning! Ought to be a bright summer's day, and the sun shining and flags flying an'——" A choked laugh.
"Glad I'm not a sailorman to be going out on a morning like this! Sure you've remembered everything? Your cab should be here now. Just gone four. Heard the bells as I was dressing——"
Rattle of wheels on the granite setts—sharp, metallic ring of shod heels—a moment of looking for a number—a ring of the door-bell.
"Perty that's tae gang doon tae th' Queen's Dock wi' luggage.... A' richt, Mister! Ah can cairry them ma'sel'.... Aye! Weel! Noo that ye menshun it, Sur ... oon a mornin' like this.... Ma respeks, gents!"
There are no good-byes: the last has been said the night before. There could be no enthusiasm at four on a raw November's morning; it is best that I slip out quietly and take my seat, with a last look at the quiet street, the darkened windows, the quaint, familiar belfry of St. Jude's.
"A' richt, Sur. G'up, mere! Haud up, mere, ye!"
At a corner of the Square the night policeman, yawning whole-heartedly, peers into the cab to see who goes. There is nothing to investigate; the sea-chest, sailor-bag, and bedding, piled awkwardly on the 'dickey,' tell all he wants to know.
"A sailor for aff!"
Jingling his keys, he thinks maybe of the many 'braw laads' from Lochinver who go the same hard road.