“Well, I haven’t got time to teach you bookkeeping,” said the other, somewhat nettled at the old man’s manner. “Can’t you get some of your brother captains to show you? Some deep-sea man would be sure to know.”
“I’ll see what I can do, sir,” said the skipper slowly, as he turned towards the door. “My word was always good enough for your father.”
In a moody, indignant frame of mind he stuck his hands furiously in his trousers’ pockets, and passed heavily through the swing-doors. At other times he had been wont to take a genial, if heavy interest in passing events; but, in this instance, he plodded on, dwelling darkly upon his grievance, until he reached, by the mere force of habit, a certain favourite tavern. He pulled up sharply, and, as a mere matter of duty and custom, and not because he wanted it, went in and ordered a glass of gin.
He drank three, and was so hazy in his replies to the young lady behind the bar, usually a prime favourite, that she took offence, and availing herself, for private reasons, of a public weapon, coldly declined to serve him with a fourth.
“Wot?” said the astounded Fazackerly, coming out of his haze.
“You’ve had enough!” said the girl firmly. “You get aboard again, and mind how you do so.”
The skipper gazed at her for a moment in open-mouthed horror, and then jamming his hat firmly over his brows, stumbled out of the door and into the street, where he ran full into the arms of another mariner who was just entering.
“Why, Zacky, my boy,” cried the latter, clapping him lustily on the back, “how goes it?”
In broken, indignant accents the other told him.
“You come in with me,” said the new-comer.