The head clerk flashed an enlightening wink toward the second head clerk; but the second clerk, seeming to be less interested than formerly, the wink was flashed over to the stenographer; but as she, too, seemed preoccupied, the head clerk, rather less buoyantly, inquired, “And what did you do to the two coal-passers?”

“For what I did to them—­after I came to—­I had to jump into the Mersey and swim ashore.  British justice, you know.  Inflexible!—­especially to a foreigner who cracks a couple of domestic skulls.”

“And then?”

“English navy.”

The head clerk began to flash again.  “And what, may I arsk, was wrong—­haw, haw!—­wrong with the sair-vice?”

The new-comer almost smiled.  “The grub, for one thing.  My word, the grub!  Blow me for a bleedin’ Dutchman, but I couldn’t go the grub; y’know.  An’ a man’s a man, with a man’s ‘eart an’ feelin’s, even if ’e’s nowt but a sailor, ain’t he now?  You’re bloody well right ’e is.  But I took a fall out of a submarine before I quit.  ’Ave you seen ‘em—­the little black chaps wot goes down an’ comes up like bloomin’ little poppusses?”

The head clerk unobtrusively relapsed into his every-day speech.  “And weren’t they exciting enough for you?”

“The one I was in was.  But you see, sir, she sunk one d’y an’ all ’ands with ’er.”

“Evidently you didn’t sink with her.  Or maybe you’re amphibious?”

“Amphibious?  Oh, I s’y now, but that’s a good one.  My word!  But you was jokin’, wasn’t you, sir?  Of course you was.  No, hi ’appened to be ashore that d’y, sir.  A mistike, sir, you see.  But such a turn of wit as you ’ave, sir!”

The head clerk suddenly shed his smile.  “Never mind about my wit.  What then?  You deserted?”

“Not hexactly, sir.  I was hofficially dead, sir.  Ought to ’ave been at the bottom, sir.  O yes, sir.  An’ when I comes along an’ declares myself, they said I was a himposter—­himposin’ on honest people, sir—­mikin’ a ‘ero o’ myself, sir, as bein’ the only man to escipe, sir.  An’ so I comes aw’y—­in a ’urry, sir.  But if I was married, sir, my widow could ’ave ’ad ’er pension, sir.  Yes, sir, ’er pension.”

“That’s a queer thing.”

“Do you think so, sir?”

The head clerk unexpectedly bounced up and down in his chair.  “See here, don’t imagine you can make fun of me, because you can’t.”

“Now don’t get grouchy.  When you pull out a cigar and start to light it, don’t blame a man looking on if he thinks you don’t object to smoking.  Anyhow, after my navy experience I came back home and landed on an East River tug.  Said I struck the busy season.  Must have struck a busy concern, too.  From daylight to ten, eleven at night—­once in a while a night lapping over.  Nothing doing but work.  I don’t mind work, but this indulging a lawless passion for it—­not for mine.  I’ve had three months of that, and I think I’m due for a change.  And don’t you think that’s enough autobiography to qualify me for pump-man on an oil-tanker?”