As soon as the anchor was down, the two friends hailed a passing boatman, who quickly put them on shore at the Battery, whence they lost no time in making their way to the steamship company's office—Bill to see if he could get a chance to ship for the run to the Isthmus, Walter to get a berth in the steerage just as soon as Bill's case should be decided. So eager were they to have the matter settled that they would not stop even to look at the wonders of the town.
While waiting their turn among the crowd in the office, Bill's roving eye happened to fall on a big, square-shouldered, thick-set man who sat comfortably warming his hands over a coal fire in the fireplace, which he wholly monopolized, apparently absorbed in his own thoughts. It was now the month of December, and the air was chilly. Bill hailed him without ceremony. "Mawnin', mister. Fire feels kind o' good this cold mawnin', don't it?"
The person thus addressed did not even turn his head.
Unabashed by this cool reception, Bill added in a lower tone, "Lookin' out for a chance to ship, heh, matey?"
At this question, so squarely put, a suppressed titter ran round the room. The silent man gave Bill a sidelong look, shrugged his shoulders, and absently asked, "What makes you think so?"
"D'ye think I don't know a sailorman when I see one? Mighty stuck up, some folks is. Better get that Ingy-ink out o' yer hands ef yer 'shamed on it."
The silent man rose up, buttoned his shaggy buffalo-skin coat up to his chin, pulled his fur cap down over his bushy eyebrows, and strode out of the office without looking either to the right or the left.
"I say, you!" a clerk called out to Bill. "Do you know who you were talking to? That's the old man."
"I don't keer ef it's the old boy. Ef that chap ha'n't hauled on a tarred rope afore now, I'm a nigger; that's all."