I close the door, Bismarck hastens away for brandy, and the Mate’s nose is covered with wrinkles. Whereby I am at liberty to conclude that there is bunkum in the air. I cough.
“See that man?” he says. I nod.
“Skipper of a three-masted bark once.”
“Yes?”
“He was!”
“What brought him down to night watchman at thirty shillings a week?”
“Bad health. He was always feelin’ unwell, and he was tradin’ between Liverpool and Bordeaux.”
The Mate nods at me to emphasise his words, while I look at him gravely.
“An’ now,” adds my friend the Mate, “I must turn out and see he comes back.”