“I understood you to say it was Lander.”
“That’s it, Lander; Max Lander. Now don’t you know who I am?”
“It may be my stupidity, but I have not the least idea.”
“Do you mean to say that you don’t know George Kingdon’s taken my ship from me?”
“Taken her from you? I don’t understand. I understood that The Flying Scud was the property of Messrs. ——”
“Staple, Wainwright and Friscoe; that’s so. That’s the name and title of the firm; they’re the owners. But I was in command of her the last three voyages; and when I brought her home I was hoping it was for the last time.”
“It seems that your hope was justified.”
“Are you laughing at me, Mr. Paine? Because, if you are, take my tip and don’t. I don’t mind being laughed at in a general way; but this is a subject on which I bar so much as a smile. I’m too sore, sir, too sore. Do you know the circumstances under which I got chucked from The Flying Scud?”
“I do not. May I ask if that is the matter on which you are seeking my advice?”
“Well,” he began, pulling at his beard again, hesitating, as if fearing to say too much. “What I want to know is, are your sympathies with the owner, with Kingdon, or with me?”