Tom Porter did not know it, but his words had fallen just at that time when his master was pondering upon the possibility of such a trip, and, though he would not have owned to it, his man’s words had turned the balance.
“Pack up at once,” he said.
“Long cruise or short, Sir Gordon?”
“Long.”
“Ay, ay, Sir Gordon. Special dispatches, Sir Gordon?”
“No; longer cruise than usual, that’s all.”
“He’s going! I’d bet ten hundred thousand pounds he’s going!” said Tom Porter; “and I’m done for! She was a bit more easy last time we met; and I shall make a fool o’ myself—I know I shall!”
He stood in the middle of his pantry, turning his right and left hands into a pestle and mortar, and grinding something invisible therein. Then, after a long silence:
“Its fate, that’s about what it is!” said Tom Porter; “and that’s a current that you can’t fight agen.”
After which philosophical declaration he began to pack, working well on into what he called the morning watch, and long after Sir Gordon had been comfortably asleep.