who, with ordinary perception, could associate him with anything else. “I am so fortunate as to have many friends among sailors, therefore I am always on the look-out for one.”
“That so?”
He kept trifling with his beard, apparently desirous that the burden of the conversation should rest with me.
“You know Mr. Gardiner well?”
“Not over well.”
“He was my schoolfellow, with another man who is now also a sailor—another George; George Kingdon.”
“What name?”
“Kingdon. He has lately received his first command; of a ship named The Flying Scud.”
Mr. Lander ceased to play with his beard. His hands dropped on to his knees. He sat forward on his chair, staring at me as if I were some strange animal.
“Good Lord!”
He seemed agitated. I had no notion why. Something I had said had apparently disturbed him.
“You know Mr. Kingdon?”
“Kingdon? Kingdon? Is that his name? Then devil take him! No, I don’t mean that. Perhaps it’s not his fault after all; it’s the fortune of war. Still—devil take him all the same.”
“What has Mr. Kingdon done to you, Mr. Lander?”
“Done!—done!” Apparently his feelings were too strong for words. Rising from his seat he began to stride about the room. Then, resting both hands upon the table, he glared at me. “What has Mr. Kingdon done to me? Did you hear my name?”
“I understood you to say it was Lander.”
“That’s it, Lander; Max Lander. Now don’t you know who I am?”
