Timbertoes. "Belay, my lad! This here's Number Five, ain't it?"
The Gentleman-in-Powder (glancing down apprehensively at his
quivering legs). "Yes,--and I'll--"
Timbertoes. "Cap'n Beverley's craft, ain't it?"
The Gentleman-in-Powder (re-adjusting his ruffled finery). "Mister
Beverley occipies this here res-eye-dence!"
Timbertoes (nodding). "Mister Beverley,--oh, ah, for sure. Well,
is 'e aboard?"
The Gentleman-in-Powder (with lofty sarcasm). "No, 'e ain't! Nor a
stick, nor a stock, nor yet a chair, nor a table. And, wot's more,
'e ain't one to trouble about the likes o' you, neether."
Timbertoes. "Belay, my lad, and listen. I'm Jerry Tucker, late
Bo'sun in 'is Britannic Majesty's navy,--'Bully-Sawyer,' Seventy-four.
D'ye get that? Well, now listen again. According to orders I hove
anchor and bore up for London very early this morning, but being
strange to these 'ere waters, was obleeged to haul my wind and stand
off and on till I fell in with a pilot, d'ye see. But, though late,
here I am all ship-shape and a-taunto, and with despatches safe and
sound. Watch, now!" Hereupon the Bo'sun removed the glazed hat, held
it to his hairy ear, shook it, nodded, and from somewhere in its
interior took out and held up three letters.
"D'ye see those, my lad?" he inquired.
The Gentleman-in-Powder (haughtily). "I ain't blind!"
Timbertoes. "Why then--you'll know what they are, p'raps?"
The Gentleman-in-Powder (witheringly). "Nor I ain't a fool, neether."
Timbertoes (dubiously). "Ain't you, though?"
The Gentleman-in-Powder (legs again noticeably agitated). "No, I
ain't. I've got all my faculties about me."
Timbertoes (shaking head incredulously). "Ah! but where do you stow
'em away?"
The Gentleman-in-Powder (legs convulsed). "And--wot's more, I've got
my proper amount o' limbs too!"
Timbertoes. "Limbs? If it's legs you're meaning, I should say as
you'd got more nor your fair share,--you're all legs, you are! Why,
Lord! you're grow'd to legs so surprising, as I wonder they don't
walk off with you, one o'these here dark nights, and--lose you!"
But at this juncture came Peterby, sedate, grave, soft of voice as
became a major-domo and the pink of a gentleman's gentleman, before
whose quick bright eye the legs of the Gentleman-in-Powder grew, as
it were, suddenly abashed, and to whom the Bo'sun, having made a leg,
forthwith addressed himself.
"Sarvent, sir--name o' Jerry Tucker, late Bo'sun, 'Bully-Sawyer,'
Seventy-four; come aboard with despatches from his Honor Cap'n
Chumly and my Lady Cleone Meredith. To see Mr. Barnabas Beverley,
Esquire. To give these here despatches into Mr. Beverley Esquire's
own 'and. Them's my orders, sir."
"Certainly, Bo'sun," said Peterby; and, to the Gentleman-in-Powder,
his bow was impressive; "pray step this way."
So the Bo'sun, treading as softly as his wooden leg would allow,
stumped after him upstairs and along a thickly carpeted corridor, to
a certain curtained door upon which Peterby gently knocked, and
thereafter opening, motioned the Bo'sun to enter.