"The Captain's boy's my size; I could wear his clothes," he suggested.
Now, back in that time when the Chief had kept a woman's picture in his breast pocket instead of in a drawer of his desk, there had been small furtive hopes, the pride of the Scot to perpetuate his line, the desire of a man for a manchild. The Chief had buried all that in the desk drawer with the picture; but he had gone overboard in his best uniform to rescue a wharf-rat, and he had felt a curious sense of comfort when he held the cold little figure in his arms and was hauled on deck, sputtering dirty river water and broad Scotch, as was his way when excited.
"And where ha' ye been skulking since yesterday?" he demanded.
"In the bed where I was put till last night. This morning early——" he hesitated.
"Don't lie! Where were ye?"
"In a passenger's room, under a bed. When the passengers came aboard I had to get out."
"How did ye get here?"
This met with silence. Quite suddenly the Chief recognised the connivance of the crew, perhaps, or of a kindly stewardess.
"Who told you this was my cabin?" A smile this time, rather like the Senior Second's when the Chief and he had shaken hands.
"A nigger!" he said. "A coloured fella in a white suit."