I hastened on to where the ferret-faced fellow stood grinning at me. He was peculiarly aggressive, and his shabby unnautical rig only added to this disagreeable characteristic. Richards followed slowly behind, his eyes holding a peculiar look as he joined the little stranger. The man gave a sneer.
“Very sentimental and proper feeling,” said he. “A ship’s like a person, more or less, an’ when one gets used to her he don’t like to give her up.”
“What do you know about sentiment, you swine?” I asked, fiercely. “I’ve a good notion to whang you for your insolence.”
“A very fine spirit,” he commented, as though to himself, as he walked ahead, “a very fine spirit indeed, but guided by a fool. Here’s the ale-house I spoke of, and the sooner we have a mug or two, the better.”
CHAPTER II.
CAPTAIN HOWARD
I might as well say in the beginning that, while I have a sailor’s taste for liquor, I’m not especially noted as a drunkard or spirit-wholloper. By the latter I mean given to ruffianism or brawling while under its influence. It is because of a naturally refined and peaceful disposition that I am so constituted, and I take no glory on that account. It is nonsense to suppose all sailors ruffians and all tales of the sea coarse, because some swabs have found that the hand of a knowing mate or skipper lies heavy upon an empty pate. The story of many voyages on American ships is gentle and uneventful as the daily run of a lady’s carriage. For evidence, read their logs. We entered the den of our little ferret-faced companion, and had no sooner sat at a table to order the ale than I was aware of the tall, dour man who had followed us from the pier-head. My second mate was too much taken up with the inmates of the place to notice anything else. I might as well confess Richards was a very pious fellow, and it must have been much against his wish to have been where he was. The tall man paid little attention to him, but looked at me.
He did not come into the room, but stood in the doorway, his fierce eyes fixed upon my face, and his long, drooping moustache hanging below his jowls, giving him a most sinister appearance. Our companion appeared not to perceive his presence at first, and only when he tilted his mug and threw his head back did his weasel eyes seem to fall in with those of the stranger.
“Come in, you terrier!” I cried. “Come in and have a mug to soak your whiskers in. Sink me, but barbers must be scarce around here. Soldier o’ the guard, hey? No one but a Voltigeer-r-r o’ the guard-r-rd would wear such hangers.”
“Young man,” said the stranger, quietly, “your language is rather unseemly, and should not be applied to one of the cloth. Hark ye! I am a man of peace, sir. I am Richard Raymond, chaplain of the Guerrière frigate. I never indulge.” He raised a lean, sinewy hand and shook his head gently at the proffered ale.
“May the devil seize me if you ain’t the holy joe I’m looking for!” I cried. “Sit down, man, sit down.”