“Certainly,” says he, and drops a fiver into it before he passes it over. That wa’n’t the only green money I collects, either, and by the time I’ve made the entire round I must have gathered up more’n a quart of spendin’ currency.
“Hold on there, Shorty,” says Chunk, as I starts out to deliver the collection. “I’d like to go with you.”
“Come along, then,” says I. “I guess some of these sailormen will row us out.”
What we had framed up was one of these husky, rugged, old hearts of oak, who would choke up some on receivin’ the tribute and give us his blessin’ in a sort of “Shore Acres” curtain speech. Part of that description he lives up to. He’s some old, all right; but he ain’t handsome or rugged. He’s a lean, dyspeptic lookin’ old party, with a wrinkled face colored up like a pair of yellow shoes at the end of a hard season. His hair is long and matted, and he ain’t overly clean in any detail. He don’t receive us real hearty, either.
“Hey, keep your hands off that rail!” he sings out, reachin’ for a boathook as we come alongside.
“It’s all right, Cap,” says I. “We’re friends.”
“Git out!” says he. “I ain’t got any friends.”
“Sure you have, old scout,” says I. “Anyway, there’s a lot of people ashore that was mighty pleased with the way you tickled that accordion. Here’s proof of it too,” and I holds up the hat.
“Huh!” says he, gettin’ his eye on the contents. “Come aboard, then. Here, I guess you can stow that stuff in there,” and blamed if he don’t shove out an empty lard pail for me to dump the money in. That’s as excited as he gets about it too.
Say, I’d have indulged in about two more minutes of dialogue with that ugly faced old pirate, and then I’d beat it for shore good and disgusted, if it hadn’t been for Chunk Tracey. But he jumps in, as enthusiastic as if he was interviewin’ some foreign Prince, presses a twenty-five-cent perfecto on the Cap’n, and begins pumpin’ out of him the story of his life.