VIII
At five minutes past six on Tuesday evening, when Ginger came home from work, a letter was waiting for him on the sitting-room chimneypiece. The first thing he noticed was that it bore the Blackhampton postmark, but being a very cool and sure hand, he did not open it at once. He preferred to fulfil the first and obvious duty of a self-respecting citizen of "cleaning himself up" at the scullery sink with water from the pump, and of sitting down to a dish of tripe and fried onions, always a favorite with him, and particularly on Tuesday when the tripe was fresh, while the Sailor, looking rather forlorn, poured out the tea. Ginger chose to do all this with astounding sang-froid before opening Dinkie Dawson's letter.
He read slowly, with unruffled countenance. Then with a noncommittal air, he threw the letter carelessly across the table to the Sailor, who had to retrieve it from the slop basin which fortunately was empty.
"Read it," said Ginger, his face a mask, his tone ice cold, without a trace of emotion.
The Sailor blushed vividly.
"Read it, yer fool," said Ginger. The pitiless autocrat was now striking through the tone of detachment.
Hopelessly confused, the Sailor turned the letter the right side up. But he didn't attempt to read. He knew it was no use. There was not a line he could understand, yet he was forced to hold it before his eyes.
"What do you think o' that, young feller, my lad?"
Stern triumph was striking now through Ginger's almost terrible detachment. "What do you think on it, eh?"
The Sailor was not able to think anything of it at the moment.