“You aren’t looking yourself, Captain,” said the girl.
“No, my dear, I aren’t,” replied Brent, “not if I look as I feel.” He relapsed into gloom and I offered him a cigarette which he refused.
“I’m going to a funeral,” he explained.
“Sorry,” said I. “Not a near relation, I hope?”
“Well, it might be a relation, by the way I feel, but I’ve none. When a man gets to my age he leaves a lot of things astern.” He sighed, finished the last half of his drink in one mighty gulp, wiped his mouth and got off his chair.
“Walk down with me a bit of the way,” said he.
We left the bar and entered the blaze of the street. It was eleven o’clock in the morning.
“It ought to be raining,” said the Captain as we wended our way along King Street towards the wharves. “Happy is the corpse that the rain rains on, is the old saying, and she’s a corpse if ever there was one, but rain or shine, if there’s happiness for such things as corpses, she’s happy—she’s done her duty.”
“What did she die of?” I asked, by way of making conversation.
“Old age,” replied Brent. He had a black tie on, but his garb was otherwise unchanged, his mourning was chiefly expressed by his voice and manner, and as we drew closer to the whiff of the harbour and the scent of shipping he took off his panama and mopped his bald head now and then with a huge red handkerchief.