“We stayed there all that night, but it warn’t no use. When day broke there wasn’t the slightest trace of it, an’ I think the men was as sorry to lose it as the officers. All ’cept Joe, that is, which shows how people should never be rude, even to the humblest; for I’m sartin that if the skipper hadn’t hurt his feelings the way he did we should now know as much about the sea-sarpint as we do about our own brothers.”
MRS. BUNKER’S CHAPERON
Matilda stood at the open door of a house attached to a wharf situated in that dreary district which bears the high-sounding name of “St. Katharine’s.”
Work was over for the day. A couple of unhorsed vans were pushed up the gangway by the side of the house, and the big gate was closed. The untidy office which occupied the ground-floor was deserted, except for a grey-bearded “housemaid” of sixty, who was sweeping it through with a broom, and indulging in a few sailorly oaths at the choking qualities of the dust he was raising.
The sound of advancing footsteps stopped at the gate, a small flap-door let in it flew open, and Matilda Bunker’s open countenance took a pinkish hue, as a small man in jersey and blue coat, with a hard round hat exceeding high in the crown, stepped inside.
“Good evening, Mrs. Bunker, ma’am,” said he, coming slowly up to her.
“Good evening, captain,” said the lady, who was Mrs. only by virtue of her age and presence.
“Fresh breeze,” said the man in the high round hat. “If this lasts we’ll be in Ipswich in no time.”
Mrs. Bunker assented.
“Beautiful the river is at present,” continued the captain. “Everything growing splendid.”