“I’ll never enter that pub again,” said the skipper.
“You come in with me,” said the master-mind firmly.
Captain Fazackerly hesitated a moment, and then, feeling that he was safe in the hands of the master of a foreign-going barque, followed him into the bar, and from behind his back glared defiantly at his fair foe.
“Two glasses o’ gin, my dear,” said Captain Tweedie with the slightest possible emphasis.
The girl, who knew her customer, served him without a murmur, deftly avoiding the gaze of ungenerous triumph with which the injured captain favoured her as he raised the cooling beverage to his lips. The glass emptied, he placed it on the counter and sighed despondently.
“There’s something up with you, Zacky,” said Tweedie, eyeing him closely as he bit the end off a cigar; “you’ve got something on your mind.”
“I’ve been crool hurt,” said his friend in a hard, cold voice. “My word ain’t good enough for the new guv’nor; he wants what he calls a disbursement sheet.”
“Well, give him one,” said Tweedie. “You know what it is, don’t you?”
Captain Fazackerly shook his head, and pushing the glasses along the counter nodded for them to be refilled.
“You come aboard with me,” said Tweedie after they had emptied them.