“Here, Peekins, post these letters. Has no one called this afternoon; I mean, no one resembling a sailor?”
The boy in blue started, and his face became very red.
“Why, what’s the matter, boy? What do you mean by staring at me, instead of answering my question?”
“Please, sir,” stammered Peekins meekly, “I didn’t mean no ’arm, sir, but you see, sir, his face was so drefful fierce, and he looked sich a wild—”
“Boy, are you mad?” interrupted Mr Denham, advancing and seizing the tiger by his blue collar; “what are you talking about? Now, answer my question at once, else I’ll shake the little life you have out of your body. Did any sailor-like man call at the office this afternoon?”
“Oh, sir, yes, sir,—I—I—thought he was drunk and wouldn’t let ’im in, sir; he’s bin a standin’ stampin’ at the door for more than—”
The end of the sentence was cut short by Mr Denham suddenly ejecting the boy from the room and shouting, “Let him in!”
In a few seconds a heavy tread was heard in the outer office, and the boy ushered in a tall young man, of unusually large proportions, with extremely broad shoulders, and apparently about twenty-three years of age, whose rough pilot-coat, wide pantaloons, and glazed hat bespoke him a sailor. His countenance was flushed, and an angry frown contracted his brow as he strode into the room, pulled off his hat and stood before the head of the house of Denham, Crumps, and Company.
“I beg pardon, sir,” began the sailor, somewhat sharply, yet without disrespect, “when I am asked to come—”
“Yes, yes, Bax,” interposed Mr Denham, “I know what you would say. Pray calm yourself. It is a pity you should have been kept waiting outside, but the fact is that my boy is a new one, and apparently he is destitute of common sense. Sit down. I sent for you to say that I wish you to take the ‘Nancy’ to Liverpool. You will be ready to start at once, no doubt—”