And the bold mariner helped himself to another glass of Miss Scragley’s port.
“But you won’t go to the wars again, Captain Weathereye?” ventured Miss Scragley.
The Captain rounded on her at once—put his helm hard up, so to speak, till he was bows on to his charming hostess.
His face was like a full moon rising red over the city’s haze.
“How do you know, madam? Not so very old, am I? War, indeed! Humph!—I’ll be sorry when that’s done,” he added.
“What! the war, Captain Weathereye?” said the lady.
“Fiddlesticks! No, madam, the port—if you will have it.”
“As for the father of these children,” he continued, after looking down a little, “if he’s been a sailor, as you say, the house won’t hold him. As well expect an eagle to live with the hens. Rum? Bah! I’ve drunk as much myself as would float the Majestic.”
“But I say, you know,” he presently remarked as he took Eedie on his knee; “Little Sweetheart here and I will run over to see the children to-morrow forenoon, and we’ll take the setter with us. Anything for a little excitement, when one can’t hunt or shoot. And we’ll take you as well, madam.”
Miss Scragley said she would be delighted; at the same time she could not help thinking the gallant captain’s sentences might have been better worded. He might have put her before the setter, to say the least.