His face proclaimed him of a like age with Captain Barker.
It did not at all match his figure, being short as a bull-dog's; and
like a bull-dog he was heavily jowled. Many weathers had tanned his
complexion to a rich corn-colour. His name was Jeremy Runacles, and
for two years, that had ended on this very morning, he had commanded
the _Trident_ frigate. As he climbed down her ladder into his gig he
had left on the deck behind him a reputation for possessing a shorter
temper than any three officers in his Majesty's service. At present
his steel-blue eyes seemed gentle enough.
"You've something to tell," he said, after a minute's silence.
The hunchback kicked at a plantain in the turf for two minutes
longer, and asked--
"How's the little maid, Jemmy?"
"Grown. She's having her morning nap."
"She want's a mother."
"She'll have to do with a nurse."
"You don't want to marry again?"
"No."
"That's a lie."
Before Captain Runacles could resent this, the little man turned his
back and took six paces to the party hedge and six paces back.
"I say, Jemmy, do you think we could fight?"
"Not decently."
"I was thinking that. I don't see another way out of it, though."
He kicked the plantain out of the ground, and, looking up, said very
softly--"Meg's a widow.
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