The men stared at him, then gave their verdict that they did not know him. “No, sir.” “Never seen him.” “Never set eyes on him.” One man, who had been standing aloof, somewhat behind the officer, came forward, to have a nearer look. He was a man of short stature, but enormous breadth of chest. He had a sallow face, intensely bright black eyes, a short nose, a mouth of unusual width slowly working upon a quid of tobacco, and both hands thrust forward into deep waistcoat pockets, where they rested on revolver-butts. He came forward slowly, chewing his tobacco, with a good-humoured leer upon the world. There was something in his slouch which was of the very essence of the man: it was his style: his pace à lui: if the world wished to go faster or slower, it might, for all he cared, nothing would make him change. He came to within a few paces of Sard, who seemed to remember that slouch and leer, but could not place the man.
“D’you know him, Doug?”
“Nar.”
He winked at Sard with one eye and slouched off to the left, to stand among the other men.
“What’s your name?” the officer asked.
“Harker.”
“What ship do you belong to?”
“The Pathfinder.”
“That’s a god-dam lie,” one of the men said, “the Pathfinder sailed last night.”
“Will you just stopper your lip?” the officer said. “If I want your dam’ soprano in this duet, I’ll call it.”