Poor Harry could scarcely have taken a more effective step to insure the turning of the deaf ear to him.
“Oh!” replied Mr Webster, coolly, “if you refuse to take charge of my vessel, Captain Boyns, I will soon find another to do it.”
“I certainly do refuse,” said Harry, preparing to leave the office, “and I think you will find some difficulty in getting any other man to go to sea in such a ship.”
“I differ from you, Captain Boyns. Good afternoon.”
“And if you do, and lives should be lost in consequence,” added Harry, grasping the handle of the door, “I warn you solemnly, that murder will have been committed by you, whatever the law may say on the subject.”
“Good afternoon, Captain Boyns.”
“You’ve got a hard master,” said Harry to Grinder as he passed through the outer office.
The confidential clerk shook his head in a deprecatory way, and smiled.
Next moment Harry Boyns found himself in the street—with nothing to do, and the wide world before him!
Meanwhile, the loading of the Swordfish went on—also the pumping of her. That same day she was visited by a surveyor from the Underwriters’ Association, who found her only five feet clear above water, and still taking in cargo. That gentleman called in another surveyor to a consultation, who agreed with him in pronouncing her overladen. She was represented as such to the local Underwriters’ Association for which the surveyor acted, but as the Swordfish was insured in London and not with them, the Liverpool underwriters did not consider themselves called upon to interfere. Their surveyor, however, visited the vessel again, a few days later, when he found her “only four feet clear,” and declared that, so far from going to Bombay, he should not like to attempt to cross to Dublin in her in anything like rough weather.