“Any deaths?” inquired the captain snappishly, as he eyed the innocent lady suspiciously.
“Poor old Jasper Wheeler has gone,” said his sister; “he was very resigned. He borrowed enough money to get a big doctor from London, and when he heard that there was no hope for him he said he was just longing to go, and he was sorry he couldn’t take all his dear ones with him. Mary Hewson is married to Jack Draper, and young Metcalfe’s banns go up for the third time next Sunday.”
“I hope he gets a Tartar,” said the vindictive captain. “Who’s the girl? Some silly little fool, I know. She ought to be warned!”
“I don’t believe in interfering in marriages,” said his daughter Chrissie, shaking her head sagely.
“Oh!” said the captain, staring, “you don’t! Now you’ve put your hair up and taken to wearing long frocks, I suppose you’re beginning to think of it.”
“Yes; auntie wants to tell you something!” said his daughter, rising and crossing the room.
“No, I don’t!” said Miss Polson hastily.
“You’d better do it,” said Chrissie, giving her a little push, “there’s a dear; I’ll go upstairs and lock myself in my room.”
The face of the captain, whilst this conversation was passing, was a study in suppressed emotions. He was a firm advocate for importing the manners of the quarter-deck into private life, the only drawback being that he had to leave behind him the language usual in that locality. To this omission he usually ascribed his failures.
“Sit down, Chrissie,” he commanded; “sit down, Jane. Now, miss, what’s all this about?”