"Most likely a great exaggeration of that spiteful old fogey's," I
said. "Never believe anything that you hear, is a sound axiom. Had
you not better try to get on board?"
"Yes; and for heaven's sake come with me, Wharncliffe!" he said.
"It can't be true! It is, as you say, that man's spite, or else
there is someone else of the name on board. That must be it--
someone else of the name."
I don't know whether he managed to deceive himself. We made our way
on board, and he spoke to one of the stewards, who conducted us to
the saloon. I knew from the expression of the man's face that the
words we had overheard were but too true; it was a mere glance that
he gave us, yet if he had said aloud, "They belong to that old
drunkard! Thank heaven I'm not in their shoes!" I could not have
better understood what was in his mind.
There were three persons only in the great saloon: an officer's
servant, whose appearance did not please me; a fine looking old man
with grey hair and whiskers, and a rough-hewn honest face,
apparently the ship's doctor; and a tall grizzled man in whom I at
once saw a sort of horrible likeness to Derrick--horrible because
this face was wicked and degraded, and because its owner was drunk--
noisily drunk.
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