“Some time ago. The clock chimed a quarter-past eight as the captain and a few of the passengers came on shore.”
“A quarter-past eight! Why, it wants nearly half an hour to that now!”
“Does it though? Before you are ten minutes older you’ll hear the clock strike nine!”
The man’s words were followed by a merry mocking laugh close to my elbow: I turned sharply round, and for the first and last time in my life felt an almost irresistible temptation to strike a woman. There stood the meek, dove-eyed, grief-stricken wife I had parted from but a few minutes before, gazing with brazen impudence in my face.
“Perhaps, Mr. Waters,” said she with another taunting laugh, “perhaps yours is London time; or, which is probably more likely, watches sometimes sleep for an hour or so as well as their owners.” She then skipped gaily off.
“Are you a Mr. Waters?” said a custom-house official who was parading the quay.
“Yes—and what then?”
“Only that a Mr. Joel Masters desired me to say that he was very much grieved he could not return to finish the evening with you, as he and his son were unfortunately obliged to leave Plymouth immediately.”
It would have been a real pleasure to have flung the speaker over the quay. By a great effort I denied myself the tempting luxury, and walked away in a fever of rage. Neither Joel Masters nor his son could afterwards be found, spite of the unremitting efforts of myself and others, continued through several weeks. They both ultimately escaped to America; and some years afterwards I learned through an unexpected channel that the canting, specious old rascal was at length getting his deserts in the establishment of Sing-Sing. The son, the same informant assured me, had, through the persuasions and influence of his wife, who probably thought justice might not be so pleasantly eluded another time, turned over a new leaf, and was leading an honest and prosperous life at Cincinnati.