“We’re to be married in August,” said the skipper desperately. “That’s my ring on her finger.”
“But you’re going to marry Mary Jones in September,” expostulated the mate. “You can’t marry both of ’em.”
“That’s what I say,” replied Evans; “that’s what I keep telling myself, but it don’t seem to bring much comfort. I’m too soft-’earted where wimmen is concerned, Bill, an’ that’s the truth of it. D’reckly I get alongside of a nice gal my arm goes creeping round her before I know what it’s doing.”
“What on earth made you bring the girl on the ship?” inquired the mate. “The other one’s sure to be on the quay to meet you as usual.”
“I couldn’t help it,” groaned the skipper; “she would come; she can be very determined when she likes. She’s awful gone on me, Bill.”
“So’s the other one apparently,” said the mate.
“I can’t think what it is the gals see in me,” said the other mournfully. “Can you?”
“No, I’m blamed if I can,” replied the mate frankly.
“I don’t take no credit for it, Bill,” said the skipper, “not a bit. My father was like it before me. The worry’s killing me.”
“Well, which are you going to have?” inquired the mate. “Which do you like the best?”