An elderly seaman came to the gate and paused irresolute, then, seeing all was quiet, stole cautiously on to the jetty, and stood for some time gazing curiously down on to the deck of the billy-boy Psyche lying alongside.
With the exception of the mate, who, since the lamented disappearance of its late master and owner, was acting as captain, the deck was as deserted as the wharf. He was smoking an evening pipe in all the pride of a first command, his eye roving fondly from the blunt bows and untidy deck of his craft to her clumsy stern, when a slight cough from the man above attracted his attention.
“How do, George?” said the man on the jetty, somewhat sheepishly, as the other looked up.
The mate opened his mouth, and his pipe fell from it and smashed to pieces unnoticed.
“Got much stuff in her this trip?” continued the man, with an obvious attempt to appear at ease.
“The mate, still looking up, backed slowly to the other side of the deck, but made no reply.
“What’s the matter, man?” said the other testily. “You don’t seem overpleased to see me.”
He leaned over as he spoke, and, laying hold of the rigging, descended to the deck, while the mate took his breath in short, exhilarating gasps.
“Here I am, George,” said the intruder, “turned up like a bad penny, an’ glad to see your handsome face again, I can tell you.”
In response to this flattering remark George gurgled.