“Can’t you remember ’ow it ’appened, Peter?” asked Mr. Tridge, with genuine sympathy. “If you can remember the chap I’ll step along and square up with ’im for you,” he promised.
“I’ve been trying to remember,” said Mr. Lock. “I don’t think it was a scrap, though. I believe it was a hexaplosion somewhere. I seem to remember a lot of sparks.”
“Now I come to think of it, I seem to remember a fire or something,” murmured Mr. Tridge, after mental gropings. “Or was it something to do with the ’arbour-master?”
The twain lay silent, striving to recollect the cause of the alteration to Mr. Lock’s countenance, and they were still silently seeking to establish the origin of the disaster when Mr. Horace Dobb made his appearance in the fo’c’sle.
“Well, did you ’ave a good time last—” he began, and then broke off at sight of Mr. Lock’s contused features. “Ah, I see you did!” he ended, sapiently.
“Both of ’em! That’s what I can’t understand,” mused Mr. Tridge. “Both of ’em! ’E must ’ave been carrying something in his arms at the time, that’s the only way I can hexplain it.”
“’Ow did it ’appen, Peter?” asked Mr. Dobb, curiously.
“I can’t remember yet whether it was a man or the hact of providence,” confessed Mr. Lock. “I’ve got a headache and can’t think clear.”
“Pity,” commented Mr. Dobb. “I’ve come down to see you on a little matter of business, but if you ain’t equal to—”
“Talking business always clears my ’ead,” said Mr. Lock, eagerly. “Have you found me a job, then?”