"Captain aboard?"
"Yes, sir."
Pause.
"Dog aboard?"
"Yes, sir."
Pause.
Our dog was a gaunt and unpleasant beast, more like a wolf in poor health than a dog, and I never noticed Mr. B at any other time show the slightest interest in the doings of the animal. But that question never failed.
"Let's have your arm to steady me along."
I was always prepared for that request. He leaned on me heavily till near enough the cabin-door to catch hold of the handle. Then he would let go my arm at once.
"That'll do. I can manage now."
And he could manage. He could manage to find his way into his berth, light his lamp, get into his bed—ay, and get out of it when I called him at half-past five, the first man on deck, lifting the cup of morning coffee to his lips with a steady hand, ready for duty as though he had virtuously slept ten solid hours—a better chief officer than many a man who had never tasted grog in his life. He could manage all that, but could never manage to get on in life.
Only once he failed to seize the cabin-door handle at the first grab. He waited a little, tried again, and again failed. His weight was growing heavier on my arm. He sighed slowly.
"Dn that handle!"
Without letting go his hold of me he turned about, his face lit up bright as day by the full moon.
"I wish she were out at sea," he growled savagely.
"Yes, sir."
