"It was," said the captain, "and this is business too. Mine. I'll look
after it, I'll promise you. I think I know who'll look silly this time.
I'd sooner see my girl in heaven than married to a rascal of a lawyer."
"You'd want good glasses," retorted Metcalfe, who was becoming ruffled.
"I don't want to bandy words with you," said the captain with dignity,
after a long pause, devoted to thinking of something worth bandying.
"You think you're a clever fellow, but I know a cleverer. You're quite
welcome to marry my daughter--if you can."
He turned on his heel, and refusing to listen to any further remarks,
went on his way rejoicing. Arrived home, he lit his pipe, and throwing
himself into an armchair, related his exploits. Chrissie had recourse to
her handkerchief again, more for effect than use, but Miss Polson, who
was a tender soul, took hers out and wept unrestrainedly. At first the
captain took it well enough. It was a tribute to his power, but when
they took to sobbing one against the other, his temper rose, and he
sternly commanded silence.
"I shall be like--this--every day at sea," sobbed Chrissie vindictively,
"only worse; making us all ridiculous."
"Stop that noise directly!" vociferated the captain.
"We c-c-can't," sobbed Miss Polson.
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