“I don’t think,” replied Havens, a tall, bland, cool-looking, leisurely Englishman, attired in spotless duck, and deliberately dealing with a cigarette. “I may say I know. She’s consigned to me from Auckland by Donald and Edenborough. I am on my way aboard.”
“What ship is she?” asked the ancient mariner.
“Haven’t an idea,” returned Havens. “Some tramp they have chartered.”
With that he placidly resumed his walk, and was soon seated in the stern-sheets of a whaleboat manned by uproarious Kanakas, himself daintily perched out of the way of the least maculation, giving his commands in an unobtrusive, dinner-table tone of voice, and sweeping neatly enough alongside the schooner.
A weather-beaten captain received him at the gangway.
“You are consigned to us, I think,” said he. “I am Mr. Havens.”
“That is right, sir,” replied the captain, shaking hands. “You will find the owner, Mr. Dodd, below. Mind the fresh paint on the house.”
Havens stepped along the alley-way, and descended the ladder into the main cabin.
“Mr. Dodd, I believe,” said he, addressing a smallish, bearded gentleman, who sat writing at the table.—“Why,” he cried, “it isn’t Loudon Dodd?”
“Myself, my dear fellow,” replied Mr. Dodd, springing to his feet with companionable alacrity. “I had a half-hope it might be you, when I found your name on the papers. Well, there’s no change in you; still the same placid, fresh-looking Britisher.”