Presently, having finished his soup, the general leaned forward and stared hard at me for a moment. Then he remarked:
“Excuse me, Conyers—it is no use being formal, when we are about to be cooped up together on board ship for the next two months, is it?—are you the man that got so shockingly hacked about at the capture of that piratical slaver, the—the—hang it all, I’ve forgotten her name now?”
“If you refer to the Preciosa, I must plead guilty to the soft impeachment,” answered I.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “hang me if I didn’t think so when I heard your name, and saw that scar across your forehead. Wonderfully plucky thing to do, sir; as plucky a thing, I think, as I ever heard of! I must get you to tell me all about it, some time or another—here, steward, hang it all, man, this sherry is corked! Bring me another bottle!”
I am rather a shy man, and this sudden identification of me in connection with an affair that I had already grown heartily tired of hearing referred to, and that I fondly hoped would now be speedily forgotten by my friends, was distinctly disconcerting; I therefore seized upon the opportunity afforded me by the mishap to the general’s sherry to divert the conversation into another channel, by turning to my lovely left-hand neighbour with the inquiry:
“Is this your first experience of shipboard, Miss Onslow?”
“This will be my third voyage to India, Mr Conyers,” she answered, with an air of surprise at my temerity in addressing her, and such proud, stately dignity and lofty condescension that I caught myself thinking:
“Hillo, Charley, my lad, what sort of craft is this you are exchanging salutes with? You will have to take care what you are about with her, my fine fellow, or you will be finding that some of her guns are shotted!”
But I was not to be deterred from making an effort to render myself agreeable, simply because the manner of the young lady was almost chillingly distant, so I returned:
“Indeed! then you are quite a seasoned traveller. And how does the sea use you? Does it treat you kindly?”