“Of course I can,” said the proprietor. “This is the very place to come. Supper will be ready in an hour. Will you sit down by the stove and have a drop of something warm?”
“I don’t mind. We’ve had a rough time outside for the last week, and hain’t got warmed up yet.”
The sailor and his young companion drew a couple of chairs near the stove, and sat down, whereupon a short, thickset man, who, seated in a remote corner of the room, had been regarding them rather sharply ever since they came in, arose and pulled his chair to Flint’s side.
“Did you say you want to ship?” he asked in a low tone, at the same time casting a quick glance toward the card players.
“Yes,” replied the sailor, running his eye over the man; “but we hain’t in no hurry about it.”
“Well, I am in a great hurry to raise a crew, and should like to get one to-night. I am second mate of the clipper Santa Maria, bound for Honolulu—forty dollars advance. Better say you’ll put your name down. Best ship you ever sailed in, and you’ll find every thing lovely aboard her. The cap’n’s a gentleman. Ask him for a chaw of tobacco, and you’ll have to mind your eye or get knocked overboard with a whole plug of it, and the mates ain’t none of your loblolly boys neither. What do you say?”
“Say no, mate,” exclaimed one of the card players, all of whom had paused in their game to hear what the mate had to say to Flint. “Don’t go near the bloody hooker.”
“What’s the matter with her?” asked Flint.
“Why, she’s got a crew aboard she never discharges, and who don’t sign articles,” answered the sailor.
“Then I guess I won’t ship,” said Flint, picking up his chair and moving it nearer the players.