“Captain Cookson here?” said a voice I knew, and Abram Bostock thrust his head just inside the door. “Oh, beg pardon, sir!”
“Come in, Abram!” I said, eagerly.
“Begging the gentleman’s pardon,” he said, wiping a little brown juice out of each corner of his mouth; “I only wanted a word with you, skipper. Binny Scudds is outside.”
“Bring him in, then!” I said, quickly.
Abram looked from one to the other, rubbed his hollow, sallow cheeks, upon which there was not a particle of hair, and then his body swayed about as if, being so thin, the draught of the door was blowing him,—“Bring him in?” he said.
“To be sure!” I exclaimed.
Tall, thin, Abram Bostock stared at my companion for a moment, and then backed out, to return directly with my old bos’en, Abinadab Scudds, half leading, half dragging him; and no sooner was the mahogany-faced old salt inside the door, and caught sight of the stranger, than he slewed round, and was half outside before Abram growled out, “Avast there!” collared him, and bringing him back, closed the door; when Scudds growled out something that seemed to come from somewhere below his waistband, and then, thoroughly captured, he stood, rolling his one eye from one to the other, and began to rub his shaggy head, ending by an old habit of his—namely, taking out a piece of rope, and beginning to unlay it.
“Begging the gentleman’s pardon,” said Abram, as he feasted on his goodly proportions, “I come to tell you, skipper, as they wants a cap’n and mates for the Gladiator.”
“But you have not engaged?” I said, anxiously.
Scudds growled, bear-fashion, and shook his head.