“What a find! what a find!” he continued to exclaim, when I had finished. “And true. You say it is true, Mr. Carvel?”
“Sir!” I replied, “I thought we had thrashed that out.”
“Yes, yes, to be sure. I beg pardon,” said he. And then to his servant: “Colomb, is my writing-tablet unpacked?”
I was more mystified than ever as to his identity. Was he going to put the story in a magazine?
After that he seemed plainly anxious to be rid of us. I bade him good night, and he grasped my hand warmly enough. Then he turned to the captain in his most condescending manner. But a great change had come over John Paul. He was ever quick to see and to learn, and I rejoiced to remark that he did not bow over the hand, as he might have done two hours since. He was again Captain Paul, the man, who fought his way on his own merits. He held himself as tho' he was once more pacing the deck of the John.
The slim gentleman poured the width of a finger of claret in his glass, soused it with water, and held it up.
“Here's to your future, my good captain,” he said, “and to Mr. Carvel's safe arrival home again. When you get to town, Mr. Carvel, don't fail to go to Davenport, who makes clothes for most of us at Almack's, and let him remodel you. I wish to God he might get hold of your doctor. And put up at the Star and Garter in Pall Mall: I take it that you have friends in London.”
I replied that I had. But he did not push the inquiry.
“You should write out this history for your grandchildren, Mr. Carvel,” he added, as he bade his Swiss light us to our room. “A strange yarn indeed, captain.”
“And therefore,” said the captain, coolly, “as a stranger give it welcome.