“Yes. What is it, ‘C.’ dear? Oh, the butter! Margaret—” to the waitress—“Mr. Dickens wishes another butter-ball. Yes, Captain Warren, Mr. Dickens is an author. Haven’t you noticed the—er—resemblance? It is considered quite remarkable.”
Captain Elisha looked puzzled. “Why,” he said, “I hadn’t noticed it ’special. Jim’s—Mr. Pearson’s—eyes and his are some the same color, but—”
“Oh, no! not the resemblance to Mr. Pearson. I didn’t mean that. The resemblance to his more famous namesake. Surely you notice it now.”
The captain shook his head. “I—I’m afraid I’m thick-headed, ma’am,” he admitted. “I’m out of soundin’s.”
“But the nose, and his beard, and his manner. Don’t they remind you of the English Dickens?”
“O-oh!” Captain Elisha inspected the great man with interest. He had a vague memory of a portrait in a volume of “Pickwick” at home. “Oh, I see! Yes, yes.”
“Of course you see! Everyone does. Mr. Dickens often says—it is one of his favorite jokes—that while other men must choose a profession, his was chosen for him by fate. How, with such a name, could he do anything except write?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. But names are risky pilots, ain’t they? I’ve run against a consider’ble number of Solomons, but there wa’n’t one of ’em that carried more’n a deckload of wisdom. They christened me Elisha, but I can’t even prophesy the weather with sartinty enough to bet. However, I daresay in your husband’s case it’s all right.”
The lady had turned away, and he was afraid he might have offended her. The fear was groundless; she was merely offering another sacrifice, the sugar this time.
“Yes?” she asked, turning, “you were saying—”