'The letters can wait,' said Geordie Potts, 'but the bob can't, and I've five more besides. Jack might have had his whack out of it if he hadn't wanted to be my manager, when he ain't fit for it.'
He put the letters into his pocket and made his way to the Sandridge Arms, where he sat and drank by himself. It was seven o'clock, and he was by then tolerably 'full,' before it occurred to him to see if he still had the letters. He took them out, and the very first his eyes lighted on was one in a long envelope addressed to
George Potts, Esq.,
c/o Captain Smith,
Patriarch.
'Blimy,' said Geordie, 'this can't be me! Esq. is what they puts after names of gents. Even the skipper don't have it after his.'
He fingered the long envelope and took another drink to consider the matter on.
'Holy Sailor, it must be me!' he said as he drew confidence out of his glass, 'there's no other Potts but me.'
He was over-full by now, and he opened the letter and began to read it.
'My dear Sir——'
'By the holy frost,' said Geordie, 'me My dear Sir!'
He went on reading.