“No more than you’re master o’ this ’ere ship,” replied Mr. Harbolt grimly. “I—I’ve been a bit queer in the stomach, an’ I took a little drink to correct it. Foolish like, I took the wrong drink, and it must have got into my head.”
“That’s the worst of not being used to it,” said the mate, without moving a muscle.
The skipper eyed him solemnly, but the mate stood firm.
“Arter that,” continued the skipper, still watching him suspiciously, “I remember no more distinctly until this morning, when I found myself sitting on a step down Poplar way and shiverin’, with the morning newspaper and a crowd round me.”
“Morning newspaper!” repeated the mystified mate. “What was that for?”
“Decency. I was wrapped up in it,” replied the skipper. “Where I came from or how I got there I don’t know more than Adam. I s’pose I must have been ill; I seem to remember taking something out of a bottle pretty often. Some old gentleman in the crowd took me into a shop and bought me these clothes, an’ here I am. My own clo’es and thirty pounds o’ freight money I had in my pocket is all gone.”
“Well, I’m hearty glad to see you back,” said the mate. “It’s quite a home-coming for you, too. Your missis is down aft.”
“My missis? What the devil’s she aboard for?” growled the skipper, successfully controlling his natural gratification at the news.
“She’s been with us these last two trips,” replied the mate. “She’s had business to settle in London, and she’s been going through your lockers to clear up, like.”
“My lockers!” groaned the skipper. “Good heavens! there’s things in them lockers I wouldn’t have her see for the world; women are so fussy an’ so fond o’ making something out o’ nothing. There’s a pore female touched a bit in the upper storey, what’s been writing love letters to me, George.”