With that he unloads as much of the tale as he's accumulated up to date. Seems he'd just got a cablegram from some firm in London that signs themselves Tootle, Tupper & Tootle, sayin' that Jack and Jill would be on the Lucania, as per letter.
"And then you lost the letter?" says I.
No, he hadn't lost it, not that he knew of. He supposes that it's with the rest of last week's mail, that he hasn't looked over yet. The trouble was he'd been out of town, and hadn't been back more'n a day or so—and he could read letters when there wa'n't anything else to do. That's Pinckney, from the ground up.
"Why not go back and get the letter now?" says I. "Then you'll know all about Jack and Jill."
"Oh, bother!" says he. "That would spoil all the fun. Let's see what they're like first, and read about them afterwards."
"If it suits you," says I, "it's all the same to me. Only you won't know whether to send for a hostler or an animal trainer."
"Perhaps I'd better engage both," says Pinckney. If they'd been handy, he would have, too; but they wa'n't, so down we sails to the pier, where the folks was comin' ashore.
First thing Pinckney spies after we has rushed the gangplank is a gent with a healthy growth of underbrush on his face and a lot of gold on his sleeves. By the way they got together, I see that they was old friends.
"I hear you have something on board consigned to me, Captain?" says Pinckney. "Something in the way of live stock, eh?" and he pokes Cap in the ribs with his cane.
"Right you are," says Cappie, chucklin' through his whiskers. "And the liveliest kind of live stock we ever carried, sir."