He was a bronzed-complexioned man of about forty, with iron-grey hair and a white “torpedo” beard. His beetling brows were conspicuous by their long, white hairs, overhanging dark and deep-set eyes. He wore a blue reefer suit and a peaked cap cocked at a rakish angle over one eye. As Talbot had remarked, he was staring—although it looked more like a glare—straight at the Kestrel.
The Kestrel had anchored about fifty yards lower down the stream than the Merlin, and was in consequence nearer to the approaching boat.
Even as Symington looked the bearded man put his helm down with the evident intention of coming alongside.
“Someone to see you, sir!” he announced, addressing Mr. Grant, who had just finished shaving.
The rest of the crew of the Kestrel came on deck. Talbot and Carline stood by with fenders; Symington prepared to take the stranger’s painter; while the others lined up behind Mr. Grant, standing smartly at “alert.”
But instead of running alongside the man let his sheets fly, with the result that the boat lost way and, only just stemming the tide, remained practically level with the Kestrel.
Then he stood up, almost bursting blood-vessels in his unaccountable anger.
“Confound you, sir!” he roared. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“ ’Fraid I don’t,” replied Mr. Grant mildly. “Unless,” he added cheerfully, “unless you are the harbour master.”
“Insolence, sir! Rank insolence!” blared the man. “Why don’t you salute? Why haven’t you dipped your ensign? I’m the Admiral commanding the Atlantic Fleet!”