"Ain't got one."
Ginger stroked a resolute jaw.
"Lookin' for a billet?"
"Yep."
"Ashore?"
The Sailor nodded.
"Better come with me, then," said Ginger, with an air of decision. "Dare say we can fix you at our shop. Fifteen bob a week ... fifteen bob and a tizzey ... if you leave it ter me."
The heart of the Sailor leaped under his jersey. This was big money as money was understood aboard the Margaret Carey.
At the end of a narrow street they came suddenly upon the dock gates. Through these on the left, then to the left again, and then to the right was the private wharf of Antcliff and Jackson, Limited, and also at Hull and Grimsby. Ginger, having told the Sailor tersely to wait outside, entered the decrepit wooden office at the entrance to the wharf, with the air of a partner in the firm. After he had had two minutes' conversation with a melancholy individual with a red nose and a celluloid collar, he beckoned to the Sailor to come inside.
The Sailor entered the office like a man in a dream.