“Honour bright?” inquired the engineer.
“Honour bright,” chorused the three.
The engineer, with all the honours of war, came on board, and, after remarking that he felt chilly bathing on an empty stomach, went down below and began to stoke. In the course of the voyage he said that it was worth while making such a fool of himself if only to see the skipper’s beautiful steering, warmly asseverating that there was not another man on the river that could have done it. Before this insidious flattery the skipper’s wrath melted like snow before the sun, and by the time they reached port he would as soon have thought of hitting his own father as his smooth-tongued engineer.
OUTSAILED
It was a momentous occasion. The two skippers sat in the private bar of the “Old Ship,” in High Street, Wapping, solemnly sipping cold gin and smoking cigars, whose sole merit consisted in the fact that they had been smuggled. It is well known all along the waterside that this greatly improves their flavour.
“Draw all right?” queried Captain Berrow-a short, fat man of few ideas, who was the exulting owner of a bundle of them.
“Beautiful,” replied Captain Tucker, who had just made an excursion into the interior of his with the small blade of his penknife. “Why don’t you keep smokes like these, landlord?”
“He can’t,” chuckled Captain Berrow fatuously. “They’re not to be ’ad—money couldn’t buy ’em.”
The landlord grunted. “Why don’t you settle about that race o’ yours an’ ha’ done with it,” he cried, as he wiped down his counter. “Seems to me, Cap’n Tucker’s hanging fire.”
“I’m ready when he is,” said Tucker, somewhat shortly.