He was silent for a while, and seemed to be thinking it over, then went on reading and mumbling. Evidently he was a detective. I had met one before once, dressed as a countryman, and talking Brummagem Yorkshire. A detective wanting to get into conversation with a sailor was just likely, I fancied, to start with an out-of-the-way thing like “shiver my timbers.” I made my mind up I wouldn’t be pumped very dry.
“Been about the world a good deal, sir, I suppose?” he said, returning to the charge after a brief pause. “Been wrecked, I dare say—often?”
“Pretty often—often enough.”
“Have you, now?” he said, laying down his book, and leaning back, to have a good look at me as he drew a long breath. “A-h!”
I went on with my meal, putting the best face I could on it, and pretending not to notice him; but it was not very easy to do this naturally, and at last I dropped my bread and butter, and fixed him, in my turn.
“You ought to know me in time,” said I.
“I should be proud to!” he answered, readily. “I should take it as a favour if you’d allow me to make your acquaintance—to become friendly with you!”
“Well,” said I, still with the detective idea strong on me, “you see, I like to know whom it is I’m making friends with. What port do you hail from, pray?”
The strange man made a plunge at me, and shook my hand heartily, shaking also the slice of bread and butter I was holding in it.
“Did you take me for a seafaring man?” he asked, in a joyful voice. “You really don’t mean that? That’s capital!”