“There, there, man, don’t stand hammering and stammering like that! You want to say something. Say it.”
“’Bout the east wind, Sir Gordon, and whether you wouldn’t think it as well to take a trip.”
“Yes, yes, man, I’m going on one—Mediterranean—in a few days,” said the old man dreamily.
“Glad to hear it, Sir Gordon; but, if I might make so bold, why not make a longer trip?”
“Not safe—yacht not big enough, my man. There, that will do: I want to think.”
“I mean aboard ship, Sir Gordon. Why shouldn’t we go as far as Australia? We’ve seen a deal of the world, Sir Gordon, but we haven’t been there.”
Tom Porter’s master gave him a peculiar look, and then nodded towards the door, when the man made a nautical bow, with a very apologetic smile, and backed out.
“Went a bit too nigh the rocks that time. It warn’t like me—but, lor! what a man will do when there’s a woman in the way!”
He had hardly settled himself in his pantry when the bell rang, and he went up, expecting a severe talking to.
“Means a wigging!” he said, as he went up slowly, to find Sir Gordon pacing the room.