“You want me to come and cook?”
“I’ve got to get a cook somewhere. Can you leave the ship?”
“Can I leave the ship? Mister, you watch and see how quick I can leave that ruddy ocean-going steam kettle! I’ve been wanting a shore job ever since I was cloth-head enough to go to sea.”
“You surprise me,” said Sam. “I have always looked on you as one of those tough old salts who can’t be happy away from deep waters. I thought you sang chanteys in your sleep. Well, that’s splendid. You had better go straight down to the house and start getting things fixed up. Here’s the key. Write the address down—Mon Repos, Burberry Road, Valley Fields.”
A sharp crash rang through the room. The man at the bar, who had finished his cocktail and was drinking a whisky and soda, had dropped his glass.
“’Ere!” exclaimed the barmaid, startled, a large hand on the left side of her silken bosom.
The man paid no attention to her cry. He was staring with marked agitation at Sam and his companion.
“How do I get there?” asked Hash.
“By train or bus—there’s any number of ways.”
“And I can go straight into the house?”