The cargo was all in by five o’clock and the hatches down. Below in the cabin the two captains and the mate sat over a substantial tea.
“Get away about three, I s’pose?” said the mate.
The skipper nodded.
“Get away about three,” he repeated, “and then for Northfleet. I’ll have all the hands to the wedding, and you shall be best man, Jim.”
“And Henry ’ll be a little page in white satin knickers holding up the bride’s train,” said the mate, spluttering at the picture he had conjured up.
They all laughed—all except Henry, who, having come down with some hot water from the galley, surveyed the ribald scene with a scarcely concealed sneer.
Half an hour later the skipper and mate went ashore to transact a little business, leaving the old man smoking peacefully in the cabin. The crew, having adjusted their differences, had already gone ashore to treat each other to beer, leaving Henry in sole charge.
“You’ll stay by the ship, boy,” said the skipper, looking down on him from the quay.
“Ay, ay, sir,” said Henry sulkily.
The two men walked along the quay and into the High Street, the skipper shrugging his shoulders good-naturedly as he caught, through a half-open door, a glimpse of his crew settling down to business. It was an example that in the circumstances seemed to be worth following, and at the next public-house the mate, sacrificing his inclinations to the occasion, drank port wine instead of his favorite whisky. For the same reason he put his pipe back in his pocket and accepted a cigar, and then followed his superior into the street.