So the stories of the Seamew’s tragedy were not very ornate in the afternoon papers after all; and public interest in the affair was soon quenched.
When my watch was piped to dinner the doctor gave me the tip to wait on deck and in a few minutes Mr. Gates beckoned me to the afterhouse.
“Quarterdeck etiquette is busted all to flinders, Clint,” he said, in an unusually jolly tone, for he was naturally a grave man. But the fact that we were in the home port after so many months was bound to thaw the iciest manner. “You’re to dine with the old man and Miss Philly.”
It was a shame the way I looked! My second suit of slops from the chest were pretty well worn out and my head was a regular mop. I had reckoned on seeing a barber about the first thing I did when I went ashore; and I hoped to squeeze out money enough for a cheap suit, too, in which I might make a more presentable appearance going home.
“Never mind your clothing, Clinton,” said Captain Bowditch, when I made some remark of this kind. “We’ll excuse your looks.”
“And I’m not much better off than you,” laughed Philly. “I have to go to bed when Singh washes this dress.”
“By the way, where is Singh?” demanded the captain. “After dinner I want we should all go up to the British consul—and I want Singh to go to.”
But Dao Singh was not to be found. I said nothing about my talk with the Hindoo. I knew that nobody had seen him after we got into our berth. He might, even, have gone ashore ahead of the Barneys. However, gone he was and the captain was quite put out.
“That’s the trouble with these natives,” he growled. “Can’t trust ’em. I’d ought to put him in irons——”
“What for, Captain? What has poor Singh done?” asked Philly.