The indignant Barber closed the door behind him with a bang, and, excited with the controversy, returned with a short and suspicious nod the greeting of a small man of shrunken and forlorn aspect who was sitting at the other side of the room.
“Mornin’, Cap’n Nibletts,” he growled.
“Mornin, sir,” said Nibletts; “how’s things?”
Captain Barber shook his head. “Bad as bad can be,” he replied, slowly; “there’s no hope at all. I’m looking for a new master for my vessel.”
Nibletts looked up at him eagerly, and then looked away again. His last command had hoisted the green flag at the mouth of the river in a position which claimed attention, respect, and profanity from every craft which passed, its master having been only saved from the traditional death of the devoted shipmaster by the unpardonable conduct of the mate, who tore him from his craft by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his trousers.
“What about Harris?” he suggested.
“I don’t like Harris’s ways,” said Barber, slowly.
“Well, what about Fletcher?” said Nibletts.
“Fletcher’s ways are worse than wot Harris’s ways are,” commented Captain Barber.
“I can understand you being careful,” said Captain Nibletts; “she’s the prettiest little craft that ever sailed out of Seabridge. You can’t be too careful.”.