“About George, sir,” said the cook, stopping in his reading. “There’s pictures of ’im too.”
He crossed to the side, and, handing the paper to the mate, listened smilingly to the little ejaculations of surprise and delight of that deceitful man as he gazed upon the likenesses. “Wonderful,” he said emphatically. “Wonderful. I never saw such a good likeness in my life, George. That’ll be copied in every newspaper in London, and here’s the name in full too—‘George Cooper, schooner John Henry, now lying off Limehouse.’”
He handed the paper back to the cook and turned away grinning as George, unable to control himself any longer, got up with an oath and went below to nurse his wrath in silence. A little later the mate of the brig, after a very confidential chat with his own crew, lit his pipe and, with a jaunty air, went ashore.
For the next hour or two George alternated between the foc’sle and the deck, from whence he cast harassed glances at the busy wharves ashore. The skipper, giving it as his own suggestion, acquainted him with the arrangements made in case of the worst, and George, though he seemed somewhat dubious about them, went below and put his bed in order.
“It’s very unlikely she’ll see that particular newspaper though,” said the skipper encouragingly.
“People are sure to see what you don’t want ’em to,” growled George. “Somebody what knows us is sure to see it, an’ show ’er.”
“There’s a lady stepping into a waterman’s skiff now,” said the skipper, glancing at the stairs. “That wouldn’t be her, I s’pose?”
He turned to the seaman as he spoke, but the words had hardly left his lips before George was going below and undressing for his part.
“If anybody asks for me,” he said, turning to the cook, who was regarding his feverish movements in much astonishment, “I’m dead.”
“You’re wot?” inquired the other.