“Yes, he would,” said Mr. Smith, passing a muscular arm round the mate's waist; “'cos the moment you're overboard I'll drop 'im in. Are you ready?”
He stood embracing the mate and waiting, but Mr. Heard, with an infuriated exclamation, walked away. A parting glance showed him that the old man had released the mate, and that the latter was now embracing Miss Smith.
[IN THE FAMILY]
THE oldest inhabitant of Claybury sat beneath the sign of the “Cauliflower” and gazed with affectionate, but dim, old eyes in the direction of the village street.
“No; Claybury men ain't never been much of ones for emigrating,” he said, turning to the youthful traveller who was resting in the shade with a mug of ale and a cigarette. “They know they'd 'ave to go a long way afore they'd find a place as 'ud come up to this.”
He finished the tablespoonful of beer in his mug and sat for so long with his head back and the inverted vessel on his face that the traveller, who at first thought it was the beginning of a conjuring trick, colored furiously, and asked permission to refill it.
Now and then a Claybury man has gone to foreign parts, said the old man, drinking from the replenished mug, and placing it where the traveller could mark progress without undue strain; but they've, gen'rally speaking, come back and wished as they'd never gone.
The on'y man as I ever heard of that made his fortune by emigrating was Henery Walker's great-uncle, Josiah Walker by name, and he wasn't a Claybury man at all. He made his fortune out o' sheep in Australey, and he was so rich and well-to-do that he could never find time to answer the letters that Henery Walker used to send him when he was hard up.
Henery Walker used to hear of 'im through a relation of his up in London, and tell us all about 'im and his money up at this here “Cauliflower” public-house. And he used to sit and drink his beer and wonder who would 'ave the old man's money arter he was dead.