Volume Two—Chapter Two.
Hopper—Ship’s Husband.
“Halloa, you sir!” said a snarling voice; “mind where you’re running to.”
“Beg pardon! Halloa, Mr Hopper, is it you?” exclaimed Tom.
“Eh? What? Yes, it is me, you rough, ill-mannered cub. Tom Fraser, if you were my son, hang it, sir, I’d thrash you, sir—trying to knock down a respectable wayfarer who is getting old and infirm.”
The speaker shook the ugly stick he carried at the young man as he spoke, and his great massive head, with its unkempt grizzled hair and untended beard and whiskers, looked anything but pleasant; for from beneath his shaggy, overhanging brows his eyes seemed to flash again.
“I didn’t try to knock you down,” shouted Tom, putting his face close to that of the old fellow, who looked as if his seventy years had been spent in gathering dirt more than in cleaning it off.
“Don’t shout. I’m not so deaf as all that, you ugly ruffian. Pick up those boots.”
Tom stooped, and picked up a very old pair of unpolished boots that the other had been carrying beneath his arm, and had let fall on the pavement in the collision.
“There you are, Mr Hopper, and I beg your pardon, and I’m very sorry,” said Tom, smiling pleasantly. “There you are,” he continued, tucking the boots under his arm. “It’s all right now.”