Beside him was Ginty, in his shirt sleeves, with his peaked cap pushed far back on his head. He sat with his elbows on the table. His chin, thrust forward, rested on his knuckles. He stared fixedly at the panelling on the opposite wall of the cabin. Lord Dunseverick, who had a side of the table to himself, leaned far back. His legs were stretched out straight in front of him. His hands were in his pockets. He gazed wearily at the small lamp which swung from the cabin roof.
For a long time no one spoke. It was Lord Dunseverick who broke the silence in the end. He took his cigarette-case from his pocket.
“You may say what you like about tobacco, McMunn,” he said, “but it’s a comfort to a man when he has no company but a bear with a sore head.”
“Ay,” said McMunn, “you’ll smoke and you’ll smoke, but you’ll no make me any easier in my mind by smoking.”
Ginty drew a plug of black tobacco from his pocket, and began cutting shreds from it with a clasp knife. He was apparently of opinion that smoking would relieve the strain on his mind.
“I’m no satisfied,” said McMunn.
“I don’t see what you have to grumble about,” said Lord Dunseverick. “We’ve got what we came for, and we’ve got our clearance papers. What more do you want? You expected trouble about those papers, and there wasn’t any. You ought to be pleased.”
“There you have it,” said McMunn. “According to all the laws of nature there ought to have been trouble. With a cargo like ours there ought to have been a lot of trouble. Instead of that the papers are handed over to us without a question.”
“It’s peculiar,” said Ginty. “It’s very peculiar, and that’s a fact.”
“Then there’s the matter of those extra cases,” said McMunn. “How many cases is there in the hold, Ginty?”