"My fault!" said I, rubbing my head, for I felt as if I had butted it against a stone wall.
"If you're going to see the Consul," said the big man—and in his speech was a pleasant touch of the Hampshire burr—"you'll not find him. And the Vice-Consul's not in, either! He don't come to the office before 9 o'clock; leastwise that's what I figured out the Dago within was tryin' to tell me! They don't overwork in the Government offices!"
With the perfect complacency of the Britisher he addressed me in English, probably assuming, were I a foreigner, that I would understand him.
He stood on the steps and mopped his brow.
"I wonder whether you could tell me," I said, "where the steam yacht Naomi is lying?"
The big man smiled and crinkled his face into a thousand fresh creases.
"Aye," he replied. "That I can! She's lying about a hundred yards off the Customs House jetty—a white craft flying the Thames Yacht Club burgee. You can't mistake her! Do you know anybody aboard?"
"Not exactly," said I. "But I wanted to call on Sir Alexander Garth, the owner."
"Then you come right along with me," placidly observed the big man. "I'm captain of the Naomi—I sail her for Sir Alexander. I've got our mail here and I'm going straight back on board. I left the launch at the steps! And, by the way, my name is Lawless—Harvey Lawless...."
"I should be delighted to come with you," I replied. "My name is Okewood!"