Tawny sails and tarry boats,
Dark-brown nets and old cork floats,
Nasty smells at the nicest spots,
Blue-jersey’d sailors, and lobster pots.
j. h. ewing.
A LOG fire burnt clearly on the wide stone hearth of the “Mariner’s Rest.” Two men sat smoking. A narrow table held their pots of beer, and they had a dingy pack of cards between them. One of these men had lost the third finger of his right hand, and the sinews having contracted, the maimed hand had the rigidity of a claw. This man was alert in expression, his eyes restless. The receding chin suggested the rodent type, and his ears set back on the narrow head completed it.
Opposite him sat Daniel Maidment, and his was an open face, with broad beard, honey-coloured. He wore a blue flannel shirt, falling open at the collar, and a red belt. His hands were brown as mahogany, and he wore gold rings in his ears.
Over these two men stood Master Crumblejohn, the landlord, and watched the game.
“Dan hasn’t the luck to-night he had yesterday,” said the rat-faced man, in the tone of voice that whines at you, “Dan hasn’t the luck. Not but what you play very well, Dan, my boy—not but what you play re-markably.”