“I lodge in Highbury Street. I’ll write the address down.” Hornblower turned to a desk in the corner and wrote on a sheet of paper which he handed to Bush “Would you care to share my room when next you come? My landlady is a sharp one. No doubt she will make a charge for a cot for you, but even so—”
“It’ll save money,” said Bush, putting the paper in his pocket; his grin as he spoke masked the sentiment in his next words. “And I’ll see more of you.”
“By George, yes,” said Hornblower. Words were not adequate.
Jenkins had come sidling up and was holding Bush’s greatcoat for him to put on. There was that in Jenkins’ manner which told Bush that gentlemen when helped into their coats at the Long Rooms presented Jenkins with a shilling. Bush decided at first that he would be eternally damned before he parted with a shilling, and then he changed his mind. Maybe Hornblower would give Jenkins a shilling if he did not. He felt in his pocket and handed the coin over.
“Thank you, sir,” said Jenkins.
With Jenkins out of earshot again Bush lingered, wondering how to frame his question.
“That was hard luck on young Wellard,” he said, tentatively.
“Yes,” said Hornblower.
“D’you think,” went on Bush, plunging desperately, “he had anything to do with the captain’s falling down the hatchway?”
“I couldn’t give an opinion,” answered Hornblower. “I’ didn’t know enough about it.”