“A’right,” said Henry; “’ave it your own way then.”
“Drop him overboard,” said the mate, who was standing on the deck.
Henry indulged in a glance of contempt—made safe by the darkness—at this partisan, and with the air of one who knows that he has an interesting yarn to spin, began at the beginning and worked slowly up for his effects. The expediency of brevity and point was then tersely pointed out to him by both listeners, the highly feminine trait of desiring the last page first being strongly manifested.
“I can’t make head or tail of it,” said the skipper, after the artist had spoilt his tale to suit his public. “He’s taken fright at something or other. Well, we’ll go after him.”
“They’re getting away at about one,” said the mate; “and suppose he won’t come, what are you going to do then? After all, it mightn’t be her father. Damned unsatisfactory I call it!”
“I don’t know what to do,” said the bewildered skipper; “I don’t know what’s best.”
“Well, it ain’t my business,” said Henry, who had been standing by silently; “but I know what I should do.”
Both men leaned forward eagerly.
“I may be a young vagabond,” said Henry, enjoying to the full this tribute to his powers—“p’raps I am. I may be put to bed by a set of grinning idiots; I may—”
“What would you do, Henry?” asked the skipper very quietly.