Captain Fazackerly advanced to the table, and clearing his throat, fixed his eyes in a reflective stare on the opposite wall and commenced:—
“Blown away fore lower topsail, fore-staysail, and carried away lifts to staysail. To sailmaker for above, eleven pounds eighteen shillings and ten-pence,” he said, with relish. “Tug out to the bar, three pounds. To twenty-eight pounds black soot, I mean paint—”
RULE OF THREE
The long summer day had gone and twilight was just merging into night. A ray of light from the lantern at the end of the quay went trembling across the sea, and in the little harbour the dusky shapes of a few small craft lay motionless on the dark water.
The master of the schooner Harebell came slowly towards the harbour, accompanied by his mate. Both men had provided ashore for a voyage which included no intoxicants, and the dignity of the skipper, always a salient feature, had developed tremendously under the influence of brown stout. He stepped aboard his schooner importantly, and then, turning to the mate, who was about to follow, suddenly held up his hand for silence.
“What did I tell you?” he inquired severely as the mate got quietly aboard.
“About knocking down the two policemen?” guessed the mate, somewhat puzzled.
“No,” said the other shortly. “Listen.”
The mate listened. From the foc’sle came low gruff voices of men, broken by the silvery ring of women’s laughter.
“Well, I’m a Dutchman,” said the mate the air of one who felt he was expected to say something.