It wanted but two days to the wedding. The Swallow was lying in the river, her deck unoccupied except for Mr. Green and the boy, who were smoking in the bows, and the ship’s cat, which, with one eye on Mr. Green, was stalking the frying-pan. Fraser had gone ashore on business connected with his wedding-garments, and Poppy Tyrell, with all her earthly belongings in a couple of boxes, sat in the cabin dreaming of her future.
A boat bumped against the side of the steamer, and Mr. Green, looking round, observed the long form of Joe scrambling over the side. His appearance betokened alarm and haste, and Mr. Green, after a brief remark on the extravagance, not to say lordliness, of a waterman’s skiff when a hail would have taken the ship’s boat to him, demanded to know what was the matter.
“Send that boy below,” said Joe, hastily.
“What for?” enquired the gentleman interested, rebelliously.
“You go below,” repeated Joe, sternly, “’fore I take you by the scruff o’ your little neck and drop you down.”
The boy, with a few remarks about the rights of man in general and ships’ boys in particular, took his departure, and Joe, taking the startled Mr. Green by the arm, led him farther aft.
“You’ve got a ’ead on you Will-yum, I know,” he said, in a fierce whisper.
“People have said so,” remarked the other, modestly. “What’s the row?”
For answer, Joe pointed to the cabin, and that with so much expression on his features that Mr. Green, following his gaze, half expected to see something horrible emerge from the companion.
“It’s all up,” said the tall seaman, poetically. “You can put the wedding-dress away in brown paper, and tell the church bells as there is no call for ’em to ring: Cap’n Flower has turned up ag’in.”