“Why not?” asked the mate.
“He’s a prize-fighter,” said the other, in awe-inspiring tones; “‘the Battersea Bruiser.’ Consequently when he clapped me on the back, and asked me when the banns was to be, I only smiled.”
“What did he do?” inquired the mate, who was becoming interested.
“Put ’em up,” groaned the skipper, “an’ we all went to church to hear ’em. Talk o’ people walking over your grave, George, it’s nothing to what I felt—nothing. I felt a hypocrite, almost. Somehow he found out about me, and I’ve been hiding ever since I sent you that note. He told a pal he was going to give me a licking, and come down to Fairhaven with us and make mischief between me and the missis.”
“That ’ud be worse than the licking,” said the mate sagely.
“Ah! and she’d believe him afore she would me, too, an’ we’ve been married seventeen years,” said the skipper mournfully.
“Perhaps that’s”—began the mate, and stopped suddenly.
“Perhaps what?” inquired the other, after waiting a reasonable time for him to finish.
“H’m, I forgot what I was going to say,” said the mate. “Funny, it’s gone now. Well, you’re all right now. You’d intended this to be the last trip to London for some time.”
“Yes, that’s what made me a bit more loving than I should ha’ been,” mused the skipper. “However, all’s well that ends well. How did you get on about the cook? Did you ship one?”