Then Springle, his face as livid as the criss-cross scars on his hand, burst into the hall.
“Cap’n Starling! Cap’n Starling!” he cried.
“Aye, aye,” muttered my lord in the dead voice of profoundest agitation.
“Cap’n Starling!” moaned the butler.
“Eh, what!” exclaimed his master. “Who the plague are you calling ’cap’n’? Ha’n’t you learned ’tis ‘my lord’ nowadays?”
“To blazes wi’ lords,” chattered Springle. “Sea-lords and land-lords. Here’s Cap’n Swall walking up the path to this house.”
“Cap’n Swall?” repeated his lordship. “Cap’n Swall? Here, give me the rum, my handsome.”
He drained the glass a third time, which seemed to calm his excitement.
“This ain’t a fancy of yours, Conrad?”
“No fancy, my lord. I seed him quite plain and the stars a-shining through his wicked bow legs as he come down the slope. But let him come!” Springle almost screamed. “Let the swab come! We’re too many for him, with pleasant talk of old ships and a knife that goes in easy and quick like.”