“About four miles, sir.”
“What is the mate’s name?”
“Welton, sir, John Welton.”
“Is he aboard just now?”
“Yessir, it’s the master’s month ashore. The master and mate ’ave it month an’ month about, sir—one month afloat, next month ashore; but it seems to me, sir, that they have ’arder work w’en ashore than they ’ave w’en afloat—lookin’ after the Trinity stores, sir, an’ goin’ off in the tender to shift and paint the buoys an’ such like; but then you see, sir, w’en it’s their turn ashore they always gits home to spend the nights with their families, sir, w’ich is a sort of compensation, as it were,—that’s where it is, sir.”
“Humph! d’you know what time it is slack water out there in the afternoon just now?”
“About three o’clock, sir.”
“Call me at nine to-morrow; breakfast at half-past; beefsteaks, coffee, dry toast. Good-night.”
“Yessir—good-night, sir—Number 27, sir, first floor, left-hand side.”
Number 27 slammed his door with that degree of violence which indicates a stout arm and an easy conscience. In less than quarter of an hour the keen grey eyes were veiled in slumber, as was proved unmistakably to the household by the sounds that proceeded from the nose to which these eyes belonged.