Franklin were thinking aloud,
and putting him into the delicate position of an unwilling eavesdropper.
But there was in the mess-room another listener. It was the steward, who
had come in carrying a tin coffee-pot with a long handle, and stood
quietly by: a man with a middle-aged, sallow face, long features, heavy
eyelids, a soldierly grey moustache. His body encased in a short black
jacket with narrow sleeves, his long legs in very tight trousers, made up
an agile, youthful, slender figure. He moved forward suddenly, and
interrupted the mate's monologue.
"More coffee, Mr. Franklin? Nice fresh lot. Piping hot. I am going to
give breakfast to the saloon directly, and the cook is raking his fire
out. Now's your chance."
The mate who, on account of his peculiar build, could not turn his head
freely, twisted his thick trunk slightly, and ran his black eyes in the
corners towards the steward.
"And is the precious pair of them out?" he growled.
The steward, pouring out the coffee into the mate's cup, muttered moodily
but distinctly: "The lady wasn't when I was laying the table.
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