"Good day, Captain McDuff," said Booker, bowing him out.
The new master of the little cargo carrier Enos had hardly arrived aboard his vessel when James came slinking into the office. He had been laying up at Montego Bay, well up the hills, where the natives took care of him for sixpence a day. Booker appeared to have expected the visit. He closed the door of the inner office as the former skipper of the ship entered and they were alone.
"You know why I sent for you?" began Booker.
"I'm a good guesser," snarled the captain, his bloodshot eyes roving furtively about. "Make it short, don't cut in too deep. I'm here for orders."
"I haven't sent you up for life for desertion, have I?" asked the calm owner, eying him with a cold look.
"No, an' what's more you ain't going to," growled the captain.
"Lord, what a man!" sneered the owner. "You don't think I'm afraid to, do you?"
"There's mighty little you fear, Mr. Booker," said Captain James sourly, "but I understand you're not trading in morals—not yet. If you were, you might. If there's anything you've got to say, say it and let me go. I didn't come here for any lecture."
"How would you like to get your ticket back again—on some other vessel?" James eyed his former employer steadily. The effects of debauch made his swollen features seem grotesque in their red ugliness, but he was sober enough for business. He had dreaded the meeting. He knew his owner's moral tone, but he had not expected a reward where punishment was plainly indicated. He had given the ship a bad name.