"
That appeared to end matters, so far as the commander was concerned;
official dignity forbade any further interest. But it was not so
very long since Mr. White was senior midshipman, and it takes a man
until he is admiral of the fleet to unlearn all he knew then and
forget the curiosity of those days.
"Now, I should have thought you were a Scotchman," he suggested without
smiling, studying the salt-encrusted wrinkles on the ebony face. "You
like whisky?"
"Yes, sah--positively, sah! Yes, Captain, sah--Ah do!"
Mr. White sent for whisky and poured out a stiff four fingers, to
the awful disgust of Curley Crothers, who saw the whole transaction.
The pilot consumed it so instantly that there seemed never to have
been any in the glass.
"I suppose your name's Macnab--or Macphairson--which? Sign here, please."
The pilot took the proffered pen in unaccustomed fingers and made
a crisscross scrawl, adorned with thirteen blots. The pen nib broke
under the strain, and he handed it back with an air of confidential
remonstrance.
"That thing's no mo-ah good," he volunteered.
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