“Heaven knows where I haven’t been. And here’s our only chance—and you
give it to that adventurous lunatic to play in his own way—in a brig!”
“Well, you had a voice—”
“I wish I’d been in this before. We ought to have run out a steamer to
Lagos or one of those West Coast places and done it from there. Fancy a
brig in the channel at this time of year, if it blows southwest!”
“I dessay you’d have shoved it, George. Still you know, George.... I
believe in him.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I believe in him, too. In a way. Still—”
We took up a telegram that was lying on his desk and opened it. His
face became a livid yellow. He put the flimsy paper down with a slow,
reluctant movement and took off his glasses.
“George,” he said, “the luck’s against us.”
“What?”
He grimaced with his mouth—in the queerest way at the telegram.
“That.”