After that he gave a slow, puzzled scratch at his shaggy head as if hard at work trying to make out a mystery, before turning once more to Rodd.
“I say, youngster,” he cried, “you don’t mean that, do you?—Warn’t I right?”
“Right? No!” cried Rodd, laughing more heartily than ever. “The idea of Uncle Paul going out with a slaver!”
“Did you mean that, Captain Chubb?” said Uncle Paul, beginning indignantly, and then softening down as he caught sight of his nephew’s mirthful face.
“Allus says what I mean,” grunted the captain. “Then I was all wrong?”
“Wrong, yes,” said Uncle Paul. “We were all at cross purposes.”
“Ho!” ejaculated the captain, and he took off his cap that he had put on with a fierce cock, turned it over two or three times in his hands, and then looking into it read over the maker’s name to himself, as if fully expecting that that would help him out of his difficulty.
“Say, squire,” he said; “I didn’t mean to be so rude.”
“No, no, of course not,” cried Uncle Paul. “There, there; sit down again. It was all a mistake. Perhaps we shall understand one another better now.”
“Well, I don’t know,” grunted the skipper. “Better go perhaps.”