“What’ll you drink?” asked Mr Sloper.
Miles was on the point of saying “Coffee,” but, reflecting that the beverage might not be readily obtainable in such a place, he substituted “Beer.”
Instead of calling the waiter, Mr Sloper went himself to the bar to fetch the liquor. While he was thus engaged, Miles glanced round the room, and was particularly struck with the appearance of a large, fine-looking sailor who sat at the small table next to him, with hands thrust deep into his trousers-pockets, his chin resting on his broad chest, and a solemn, owlish stare in his semi-drunken yet manly countenance. He sat alone, and was obviously in a very sulky frame of mind—a condition which he occasionally indicated through a growl of dissatisfaction.
As Miles sat wondering what could have upset the temper of a tar whose visage was marked by the unmistakable lines and dimples of good-humour, he overheard part of the conversation that passed between the barman and Mr Sloper.
“What! have they got hold o’ Rattling Bill?” asked the former, as he drew the beer.
“Ay, worse luck,” returned Sloper. “I saw the sergeant as I came along lead him over to Miss Robinson’s trap—confound her!”
“Don’t you go fur to say anything agin Miss Robinson, old man,” suddenly growled the big sailor, in a voice so deep and strong that it silenced for a moment the rest of the company. “Leastways, you may if you like, but if you do, I’ll knock in your daylights, an’ polish up your figur’-head so as your own mother would mistake you fur a battered saucepan!”
The seaman did not move from his semi-recumbent position as he uttered this alarming threat, but he accompanied it with a portentous frown and an owlish wink of both eyes.
“What! have you joined the Blue Lights?” asked Sloper, with a smile, referring to the name by which the religious and temperance men of the army were known.
“No, I ha’n’t. Better for me, p’r’aps, if I had. Here, waiter, fetch me another gin-an’-warer. An’ more o’ the gin than the warer, mind. Heave ahead or I’ll sink you!”