Yet his eyes gleamed like those
of a perplexed bull.
"I s'pose you heard my missus an' me talking of Marseilles," he
growled, "but how do you know I'm a captain."
"It is written on your bag."
"Well, my missus wrote that--"
"Moreover," went on Dick, determined to break the ice, "I'm your second
mate."
"Wot?" roared Stump, leaning forward and placing a hand on each knee,
while his fiery glance took in every detail of Royson's appearance.
"You--my--second--mate?"
The words formed a crescendo of contemptuous analysis. But Dick faced
the storm boldly.
"Yes," he said. "I don't see any harm in stating the fact, now that I
know who you are."
"Harm! Who said anything about harm? Wot sort of sailor d'ye call
yerself? Who ever heard of a sailor in knickers?"
Then it dawned on Royson that the captain's wrath was comprehensible.
There is in every male Briton who goes abroad an ingrained instinct
that leads him to don a costume usually associated with a Highland
moor. Why this should be no man can tell, but nine out of ten
Englishmen cross the Channel in sporting attire, and Royson was no
exception to the rule.
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