"Well ... I'm damned!"
Stryker managed to infuse into his tone a deal of suspicious contempt.
"Why?" insisted Kirkwood, nettled but still uncomprehending.
"D'you mean to tell me you came off from—wherever in 'ell you did come from—intendin' to board this wessel and find a party nymed Calendar?"
"Certainly I did. Why—?"
"Well!" cried Mr. Stryker, rubbing his hands together with an air oppressively obsequious, "I'm sorry to hin-form you you've come to the wrong shop, sir; we don't stock no Calendars. We're in the 'ardware line, we are. You might try next door, or I dessay you'll find what you want at the stytioner's, round the corner."
A giggle from his audience stimulated him. "If," he continued acidly, "I'd a-guessed you was such a damn' fool, blimmy if I wouldn't've let you drownd!"
Staggered, Kirkwood bore his sarcastic truculence without resentment.
"Calendar," he stammered, trying to explain, "Calendar said—"
"I carn't 'elp wot Calendar said. Mebbe 'e did myke an engygement with you, an' you've gone and went an' forgot the dyte. Mebbe it's larst year's calendar you're thinkin' of. You Johnny" (to a lout of a boy in the group of seamen), "you run an' fetch this gentleman Whitaker's for Nineteen-six. Look sharp, now!"