“I ’ate toffs,” he said, deliberately, as he placed his mug on the counter.
“They’re all right when you know ’em, Charlie,” said Joe, who was averse to having the evening spoiled at that early hour.
“A real toff’s bad enough,” continued the fireman, “but a himitation one—pah!” He buried his face in the pewter again, and laughed discordantly.
“You go aboard and wash you face, Tommy,” repeated Mr. Green. “I should think you’d find plenty o’ soap in Charlie’s bunk.”
“Do you know what you want?” demanded the fireman, regarding him fixedly.
“I know what you want,” said Mr. Green, with a supercilious smile.
“Oh! Wot?” said the other.
The polite seaman rose to his feet and watched him carefully. “A banjo,” he replied.
It was not the reply according to time-honoured formula, and Charlie, who was expecting something quite different, was at no pains to hide his perplexity. “A banjo?” he repeated, slowly, “a banjo—a ban——?”
Light came to him suddenly, and he flew at Mr. Green with his fists whirling. In a second the bar was in an uproar, and the well-meant and self-preservative efforts of Joe and the cook to get the combatants into the street were frustrated by people outside blocking up the doors. They came out at last, and Fraser, who was passing, ran over just in time to save Mr. Green, who was doing his best, from the consequences of a somewhat exaggerated fastidiousness. The incident, however, afforded a welcome distraction, and having seen Mr. Green off in the direction of the steamer, while the fireman returned to the public-house, he bent his steps homewards and played a filial game at cards with his father before retiring.