A gang of people from some
tip-top West-End house were fussing here on board with hangings and
furniture for a fortnight, as if the Queen were coming with us. Of
course the starboard cabin is the bedroom one, but the poor captain hangs
out to port on a couch, so that in case we want him on deck at night,
Mrs. Anthony should not be startled. Nervous! Phoo! A woman who
marries a sailor and makes up her mind to come to sea should have no
blamed jumpiness about her, I say. But never mind. Directly the old cab
pointed round the corner of the warehouse I called out to the captain
that his lady was coming aboard. He answered me, but as I didn't see him
coming, I went down the gangway myself to help her alight. She jumps out
excitedly without touching my arm, or as much as saying "thank you" or
"good morning" or anything, turns back to the cab, and then that old
joker comes out slowly. I hadn't noticed him inside. I hadn't expected
to see anybody. It gave me a start. She says: "My father--Mr.
Franklin." He was staring at me like an owl. "How do you do, sir?" says
I.
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