“Ashore?” cried Huish. “O, I say! I’d ’a gone too.”
“Would you?” said the captain.
“Yes, I would,” replied Huish. “I like Attwater. ’E’s all right; we got on like one o’clock when you were gone. And ain’t his sherry in it, rather? It’s like Spiers and Pond’s Amontillado! I wish I ’ad a drain of it now.” He sighed.
“Well, you’ll never get no more of it—that’s one thing,” said Davis gravely.
“’Ere, wot’s wrong with you, Dyvis? Coppers ’ot? Well, look at me! I ain’t grumpy,” said Huish; “I’m as plyful as a canary-bird, I am.”
“Yes,” said Davis, “you’re playful; I own that; and you were playful last night, I believe, and a damned fine performance you made of it.”
“’Allo!” said Huish. “’Ow’s this? Wot performance?”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” said the captain, getting slowly off the rail.
And he did: at full length, with every wounding epithet and absurd detail repeated and emphasised; he had his own vanity and Huish’s upon the grill, and roasted them; and as he spoke he inflicted and endured agonies of humiliation. It was a plain man’s masterpiece of the sardonic.
“What do you think of it?” said he, when he had done, and looked down at Huish, flushed and serious, and yet jeering.