There was a white cloth on the table, with a very English-looking breakfast spread; and plain and bare as the place was, with nothing better than Chinese mats to act as a carpet, curtain, and blind, there was the appearance of scrupulous cleanliness; and rested by a good night’s sleep, and elastic of spirit in the fresh air of a beautiful morning, Stan felt ready to make the best of things if his host proved to be only bearable.
There he sat—his host—reading hard at a letter, and he made no sign for a few moments, and paid no heed to Stan’s “Good-morning!” but read on, till he suddenly exclaimed, “‘Very faithfully yours, Jeffrey Lynn,’” and doubled the letter up and thrust it in his pocket.
“Morning, squire,” he continued. “Rested? I read all the correspondence before I turned in, and I’ve just run through your uncle’s letter again. I say, he gives you an awfully good character.”
“Does he?” said Stan.
“Splendid. Ah! here’s old Wing. I’m peckish; aren’t you?”
“Yes; I’m ready for my breakfast,” replied the boy as Wing entered, smiling, with a big, round lacquer tray loaded with the necessaries for a good morning meal.
“That’s right. We’ll have it, then, and afterwards see to the unloading. There isn’t much consigned to me this time. After that you’d like to see the warehouses and what we’ve got there, and learn who the different fellows are, before we have an hour or two in the counting-house—eh?”
“Yes; I’m ready,” said Stan, smiling, and having hard work to keep from looking wonderingly at the man who had given him so unpleasant a reception the previous evening.
“Is he a two-faced fellow,” thought Stan, “and doing all this to put me off my guard? Why, he’s as mild as—”
Stan was going to say “mild” again, but at that moment a wild hubbub of angry voices in fierce altercation burst out, the noise coming through the open window from the direction of the wharf beyond which the junk was moored.