A few moments later the door of his cell was unceremoniously opened and a man entered bearing an armful of fresh clothing.
“Captain Schofield,” he said, with the deference of a servant, “the captain wishes your presence at dinner. The ship’s barber will be here presently. Etiquette provides that you wear these clothes. I will fix them and lay them out for you. If you care for a bath, sir, I will draw it––”
“Say, look here,” exclaimed our hero with a sudden and unexpected touch of asperity, “if you’re 208 trying to kid me, old side-whiskers, you’re due for the licking of your life.”
He got deliberately upon his feet and removed the fishing-coat which he had worn uninterruptedly since the night at St. Pierre.
“I thought I’d read about you in that magazine or something, and had fallen asleep, but here you are still in the room. I’m going to see whether you’re alive or not. No one can mention a bath to me with impunity.”
He made a sudden grab for the servant, who stood with mouth open, uncertain as to whether or not he was dealing with a lunatic.
Before he could move, Code’s hard, strong hands closed upon his arms in a grip that brought a bellow of pain. In deadly fear of his life, he babbled protests, apologies, and pleadings in an incoherent medley that would have satisfied the most toughened skeptic. Code released him, laughing.
“Well, I guess you’re real, all right,” he said. “Now if you’re in earnest about all this, draw that bath quick. Then I’ll believe you.”
Half an hour later Code, bathed, shaved, and feeling like a different man, was luxuriating in fresh linen and a comfortable suit.
“Look here, Martin,” he said to the valet, “of course I know that this is no more the gunboat Albatross than I am. The Canadian government 209 isn’t in the habit of treating prisoners in exactly this manner. What boat is this?”