“Ay, ay, sir!” roared half-a-dozen jack tars, who chanced to be regaling themselves within, and who rushed out, hat in hand, ready for a spree, at the unexpected but well-known summons.
“Major Whitlaw,” said Tom Collins, springing up the steps, and addressing a tall, cadaverous-looking Yankee, “allow me to introduce to you your landlord, Captain Bunting—your tenant, captain. I dare say you have almost forgotten each other.”
The captain held out his hand mechanically and gazed at his tenant unbelievingly, while the major said—
“Glad to see ye, cap’n, I guess. Wanted to for a long time. Couldn’t come to terms with old Thompson. Won’t you step in and take a cocktail or a gin-sling? I’d like to have a private talk—this way.”
The landlord of the Roving Bess Tavern led the captain to what was once his own cabin, and begged him to be seated on his own locker at the head of his own table. He accepted these civilities, staring round him in mute wonder all the time, as if he thought it was a dream, out of which he should wake in due course, while, from all parts of the tavern, came sounds of mirth, and clatter of knives and forks and dishes, and odours of gin-slings and bear-steaks and pork-pies.
“Jist sit there a minute,” said the Yankee, “till I see to your friends bein’ fixed off comfortable; of course, Mr Collins may stay, for he knows all about it.”
When he was gone, the captain rose and looked into his old berth. It had been converted into a pantry, so he shut the door quickly and returned to his seat.
“Tom,” said he, in a low whisper, as if he feared to break the spell, “how did they get her up here!”
“She’s never been moved since you left her,” answered Tom, laughing; “the town has gradually surrounded her, as you see, and crept out upon the shore, filling up the sea with rubbish, till it has left her nearly a quarter of a mile inland.”
The captain’s eyes opened wider than ever, but before he could find words again to speak, Major Whitlaw returned.