Unheard by either, Tom Porter had entered the room, sailor fashion, barefoot, in the easy canvas suit he wore when yachting with his master. He had brought in a basin of broth of his own brewing, as he termed it—for Sir Gordon was unwell—a plate with a couple of slices of bread of his own toasting in the other hand, and he was holding the silver spoon from Sir Gordon’s travelling canteen beneath his chin.
He heard every word as he stood waiting respectfully to bring in his master’s “’levens,” as he called it; and, instead of getting the sherry from the cellaret, he began screwing up his hard face, and showing his emotion by working about his bare toes.
As Sir Gordon finished his bitter speech, Tom Porter took a step forward and threw the basin of mutton broth, basin, plate, and all, under the grate with a crash, and stalked towards the door.
“You scoundrel!” roared Sir Gordon. “You, Tom Porter, stop!”
“Be damned if I do!” growled the man. “There’s mutiny on, and I leave the ship.”
Bang!
The door was closed violently, and Sir Gordon looked helplessly up at Bayle.
“You see!”
“Yes,” said Bayle, “I see. Poor fellow! Why did you wound his feelings like that?”
“There!” cried Sir Gordon; “now you side with the scoundrel. Twenty-five years has he been with me, and look at my soup!”