“Captain George, of the Sussex Queen, is within, sir,” he said, pushing open the door, and giving Jeffray a glimpse into the foggy atmosphere of the room. Richard walked in.
“Thanks. Captain George, I believe?”
A big man in a blue coat and white breeches, with dirtier buckles on still dirtier shoes, rose cumbrously from a leather-backed chair, and held out a paw to the Squire of Rodenham. A second seafaring gentleman occupied the oak settle, and spat rhythmically on the floor, while the reek of tobacco battled with the abominable odor of stale beer.
“I’m Captain George, sir, to be sure.”
Jeffray took stock of the red-faced and loose-jointed seaman, and summed him up as a sloven and a drunkard.
“You are sailing to-day for France, captain?”
“Well, sir, that’s as it may be,” and the courtier knocked out his pipe, and spat into the empty grate.
“I desire passage for two, a lady and myself.”
Captain George’s mate had sidled to the window, and was peering like a bird at the hurrying sky.
“Looks uncommon dirty,” he remarked, thrusting out his lower lip.