CHAPTER XI
A LIVELY MORNING IN EXCHANGE BUILDINGS
Coke and his merry men became pirates during the early morning ofThursday, September 2d; the curious reader can ascertain the year bylooking up "Brazil" in any modern Encyclopedia, and turning to thesub-division "Recent History." On Monday, September 6th, David Verityentered his office in Exchange Buildings, Liverpool, hung his hat andovercoat on their allotted pegs, swore at the office boy because somespots of rain had come in through an open window, and ran a feverishglance through his letters to learn if any envelopes bearing theplanetary devices of the chief cable companies had managed to hidethemselves among the mass of correspondence.
The act was perfunctory. Well he knew that telephone or specialmessenger would speedily have advised him if news of the _Andromeda_had arrived since he left the office on Saturday afternoon. But it issaid that drowning men clutch at straws, and the metaphor might beapplied to Verity with peculiar aptness. He was sinking in a sea oftroubles, sinking because the old buoyancy was gone, sinking becausemany hands were stretched forth to push him under, and never one todraw him forth.
There was no cablegram, of course. Dickey Bulmer, who had become awaking nightmare to the unhappy shipowner, had said there wouldn'tbe--said it twelve hours ago, after wringing from Verity the astoundingadmission that Iris was on board the _Andromeda_. It was not becausethe vessel was overdue that David confessed. Bulmer, despite hissixty-eight years, was an acute man of business. Moreover, he wasblessed with a retentive memory, and he treasured every word of thebogus messages from Iris concocted by her uncle. They were lucid atfirst, but under the stress of time they wore thin, grew disconnected,showed signs of the strain imposed on their author's imagination.Bulmer, a typical Lancashire man, blended in his disposition a genialopenhandedness with a shrewd caution. He could display a princelygenerosity in dealing with Verity as the near relative and guardian ofhis promised wife; to the man whom he suspected of creating theobstacles that kept her away from him he applied a pitiless logic.
The storm had burst unexpectedly. Bulmer came to dinner, ate and drankand smoked in quiet amity until David's laboring muse conveyed hisniece's latest "kind love an' good wishes," and then----
"Tell you wot," said Dickey, "there's another five thousand dueto-morrow on the surveyor's report."
"There is," said Verity, knowing that his guest and prospective partneralluded to the new steamer in course of construction on the Clyde.
"Well, it won't be paid."
David lifted his glass of port to hide his face. Was this the firstrumbling of the tempest? Though expected hourly, he was not preparedfor it. His hand trembled. He dared not put the wine to his lips.
"Wot's up now?" he asked.
"You're playin' some underhand game on me, David, an' I won't standit," was the unhesitating reply. "You're lyin' about Iris. You've binlyin' ever since she disappeared from Bootle. Show me 'er letters an'their envelopes, an' I'll find the money. But, of course, you can't.They don't exist. Now, own up as man to man, an' I'll see if thisaffair can be settled without the lawyers. You know wot it means once_they_ take hold."
Then David set down the untasted wine and told the truth. Notall--that was not to be dreamed of. In the depths of his heart hefeared Bulmer. The old man's repute for honesty was widespread. Hewould fling his dearest friend into prison for such a swindle as thatarranged between Coke and the shipowner. But it was a positive reliefto divulge everything that concerned Iris. From his pocket-book Davidproduced her frayed letter, and Bulmer read it slowly, aloud, througheyeglasses held at a long focus.
Now, given certain definite circumstances, an honest man and a roguewill always view them differently. David had interpreted the girl'sguarded phrases in the light of his villainous compact with Coke.Dickey, unaware of this disturbing element, was inwardly amazed tolearn that Verity had lied so outrageously with the sole object ofcarrying through a commercial enterprise.
"'Tell him I shall marry him when the _Andromeda_ returns to Englandfrom South America,'" he read. And again . . . "'The vessel is dueback at the end of September, I believe, so Mr. Bulmer will not havelong to wait.'"
If, in the first instance, David had not been swept off his feet by themagnitude of the catastrophe, if he had not commenced the series ofprevarications before the letter reached him, he might have adopted theonly sane course and taken Bulmer fully into his confidence. It wastoo late now. Explanation was useless. The only plea that occurred tohim was more deadly than silence, since it was her knowledge of thecontemplated crime that made Iris a stowaway. He had never guessed howthat knowledge was attained and the added mystery intensified historture.
Dickey rose from the table. His movements showed his age that night.
"I'll think it over, David," he said. "There's more in this than meetsthe eye. I'll just go home an' think it over. Mebbe I'll call at yourplace in the mornin'."
So here was Verity, awaiting Bulmer's visit as a criminal awaits ahangman. There was no shred of hope in his mind that his one-timecrony would raise a finger to save him from bankruptcy. Some offensesare unforgivable, and high in the list ranks the folly of separating awealthy old man from his promised bride.
Now that a reprieve was seemingly impossible, he faced his misfortuneswith a dour courage. It had been a difficult and thankless task duringthe past month to stave off pressing creditors. With Iris in Bootleand Bulmer her devoted slave, Verity would have weathered the gale withjaunty self-confidence. But that element of strength was lacking; nay,more, he felt in his heart that it could never be replaced. He was nolonger the acute, blustering, effusive Verity, who in one summer'safternoon had secured a rich partner and forced an impecunious sailorto throw away a worn-out ship. The insurance held good, of course, andthere simply _must_ be some sort of tidings of the _Andromeda_ to handbefore the end of September. Yet things had gone wrong, desperatelywrong, and he was quaking with the belief that there was worse in store.
He began to read his letters. They were mostly in the same vein, duns,more or less active. His managing clerk entered.
"There's an offer of 5s. 6d. Cardiff to Bilbao and Bilbao to the Tynefor the _Hellespont_. It is better than nothing. Shall we take it,sir?"
The _Hellespont_ was the firm's other ship. She, too, was old andrunning at a loss.
"Yes. Wot is it, coal or patent fuel?"
"Coal, with a return freight of ore."
"Wish it was dynamite, with fuses laid on."
The clerk grinned knowingly. Men grow callous when money tilts thescale against human lives.
"There's no news of the _Andromeda_, and _her_ rate is all right," hesaid.
David scowled at him.
"D--n the rate!" he cried. "I want to 'ear of the ship. Wot the----"
But his subordinate vanished. David read a few more letters. Somewere from the families of such of the _Andromeda's_ crew as lived inSouth Shields, the Hartlepools, Whitby. They asked as a great favorthat a telegram might be sent when----
"Oh, curse my luck!" groaned the man, quivering under the convictionthat the _Andromeda_ was lost "by the act of God" as the charter-partyputs it. The belief unnerved him. Those words have an ominous ring inthe ears of evil-doers. He could show a bold front to his fellowmen,but he squirmed under the dread conception of a supernatural vengeance.So, like every other malefactor, David railed against his "luck."Little did he guess the extraordinary turn that his "luck" was about totake.
The office boy announced a visitor, evidently not the terrible Bulmer,since he said:
"Gennelman to see yer, sir."
"Oo is it?" growled the shipowner.
"Gennelman from the noospaper, sir."
"Can't be bothered."
"'E sez hit's most himportant, sir."
"Wot is?"
"I dunno, sir."
"Well, show 'im in. I'll soon settle 'im."
A quiet-mannered young man appeared. He ignored David's
sharp, "Now,wot can I do for you?" and drew up a chair, on which he seated himself,uninvited.
"May I ask if you have received any private news of the _Andromeda_?"he began.
"No."
"In that case, you must prepare yourself for a statement that may giveyou a shock," said the journalist.
David creaked round in his chair. His face, not so red as of yore,paled distinctly.
"Is she lost?" said he in a strangely subdued tone.
"I--I fear she is. But there is much more than an ordinary shipwreckat issue. Several telegrams of the gravest import have reached us thismorning. Perhaps, before I ask you any questions, you ought to readthem. They are in type already, and I have brought you proofs. Hereis the first."
David took from the interviewer's outstretched hand a long strip ofwhite paper. For an appreciable time his seething brain refused tocomprehend the curiously black letters that grouped themselves intowords on the limp sheet. And, indeed, he was not to be blamed if hewas dull of understanding, for this is what he read:
"REVOLUTION IN BRAZIL.
"SERIOUS POSITION.
"STARTLING ESCAPADE OF A BRITISH SHIP.
"RIO DE JANEIRO, September 5th. A situation of exceptional gravity hasevidently arisen on the island of Fernando do Noronha, whence, it issaid, ex-President De Sylva recently attempted to escape. A battleshipand two cruisers have been despatched thither under forced draught. Nopublic telegrams have been received from the island during the pastweek, and the authorities absolutely refuse any information as toearlier events, though the local press hints at some extraordinarydevelopments not unconnected with the appearance off the island of aBritish steamship known as the _Andromeda_.
"_Later_--De Sylva landed last night at the small port of Maceio in theprovince of Alagoas, a hundred miles south of Pernambuco. It iscurrently reported that Fernando Noronha was captured by a gang ofBritish freebooters. De Sylva's return is unquestionable. To-day heissued a proclamation, and his partisans have seized some portion ofthe railway. Excitement here is at fever heat."
Verity glared at the journalist. He laughed, almost hysterically.
"The _Andromeda_!" he gasped. "Wot rot! Wot silly rot!"
"Better withhold your opinion until you have mastered the whole story,"was the unemotional comment. "Here is a more detailed message. It isprinted exactly as cabled. We have not added a syllable except theinterpolation of such words as 'that' and 'the.' You will find itsomewhat convincing, I imagine."
The shipowner grasped another printed slip. This time he was able toread more lucidly:
"PERNAMBUCO, September 4th. Public interest in the abortive attempt toreinstate Dom Corria De Sylva as President was waning rapidly when itwas fanned into fresh activity by news that reached this port to-day.It appears that on the 31st ulto. a daring effort was made to free DeSylva, who, with certain other ministers expelled by the successfulrevolution of two years ago, is a prisoner on the island of Fernando doNoronha. Lloyd's agent on that island reports that the British steamer_Andromeda_, owned by David Verity & Co. of Liverpool, put into SouthBay, on the southeast side of Fernando do Noronha, early on the morningof August 31st, and it is alleged that her mission was to take De Sylvaand his companions on board. The garrison, forewarned by the centralgovernment, and already on the _qui vive_ owing to the disappearance oftheir important prisoners from their usual quarters, opened fire on the_Andromeda_ as soon as she revealed her purpose by lowering a boat.
"The steamer, being unarmed, made no attempt to defend herself, and wasspeedily disabled. She sank, within five minutes, off the Grand-pererock, with all on board. With reckless bravado, her commander ran upthe vessel's code signals and house flag while she was actually goingdown, thus establishing her identity beyond a shadow of doubt. A noteof pathos is added to the tragedy by the undoubted presence of a ladyon board--probably De Sylva's daughter, though it was believed herethat the ex-President's family were in Paris. Telegrams from theisland are strictly censored, and the foregoing statement isunofficial, but your correspondent does not question its generalaccuracy. Indeed, he has reason to credit a widespread rumor that theisland is still in a very disturbed condition. No one knows definitelywhether or not De Sylva has been recaptured. It is quite certain thathe has not landed in Brazil, but the reticence of the authorities as tothe state of affairs on Fernando Noronha leads to the assumption thathe and a few stanch adherents are still in hiding in one of the manynatural fastnesses with which the island abounds.
"The British community on the littoral is deeply stirred by the drastictreatment received by the _Andromeda_. It is pointed out that anothership, the _Andros-y-Mela_, believed to have been chartered by theinsurgents, is under arrest at Bahia, and the similarity between thetwo names is regarded as singular, to say the least. Were it not thatLloyd's agent, whose veracity cannot be questioned, has statedexplicitly that the _Andromeda_ put in to South Bay--a pointsignificantly far removed from the regular track of trading vessels--itmight be urged that a terrible mistake had been made. In any event,the whole matter must be strictly inquired into, and one of HisMajesty's ships stationed in the South Atlantic should visit the islandat the earliest date possible. _Delayed in transmission_."
Something buzzed inside Verity's head and stilled all sense ofactuality. He was unnaturally calm. Though the weather was chilly forearly September, great beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead.His eyes were dull; they lacked their wonted shiftiness. He gazed atthe reporter unblinkingly, as though thought itself refused to act.
"Is that the lot?" he inquired mechanically.
"Nearly all, at present. These cablegrams reached us through London,and the agency took the earliest measures to substantiate theiraccuracy. The Brazilian Embassy pooh-poohs the whole story, butEmbassies invariably do that until the news is stale. By their ownshowing, Ambassadors are singularly ill-informed men, especially inmatters affecting their own countries. Here, however, is a shorttelegram from Paris which is of minor interest."
And Verity read again:
"PARIS, September 6th. The members of Dom Corria De Sylva's family,seen early this morning at the Hotel Continental, deny that any ladyconnected with the cause of Brazilian freedom took part in theattempted rescue of the ex-President. They are much annoyed by theunfounded report, and hold strongly to the opinion that the revolutionwould now have been a _fait accompli_ had not a traitor revealed thedestination of the _Andros-y-Mela_ and thus led to that vessel'sdetention at Bahia."
The lady! Iris Yorke! At last David's supercharged mind was beginningto assimilate ideas. He was conscious of a fierce pain in the regionof his heart. The buzzing in his head continued, and the journalist'svoice came to him as through a dense screen.
"You will observe that the former President's relatives tacitly admitthat there was a plot on foot," the other was saying. "It is importantto note, too, that the long message from Pernambuco, marked 'delayed intransmission' seems to imply a prior telegram which was suppressed. Italludes to a revolt of which nothing is known here. Now, Mr. Verity, Iwant to ask you----"
The door was flung open. In rushed Dickey Bulmer with a speedstrangely disproportionate to his years. In his hands he held acrumpled newspaper.
"You infernal blackguard, have you seen this?" he roared, and hisattitude threatened instant assault on the dazed man looking up at him.The reporter moved out of the way. Here, indeed, was "copy" of theright sort. Bulmer held a position of much local importance. That heshould use such language to the owner of the _Andromeda_ promiseddevelopments "of the utmost public interest."
David stood up. His chair fell over with a crash. He held on to thetable to steady himself. Even Bulmer, white with rage, could not failto see that he was stunned.
But Dickey was not minded to spare him on that account.
"Answer me, you scoundrel!" he shouted, thrusting the paper almost intoDavid's face. "You are glib enough when it suits your purpose. Were_you_ in
this? Is this the reason you didn't tell me Iris was on boardtill I forced the truth out of you last night?"
The managing clerk came in. Behind him, a couple of juniors and theoffice boy supplied reenforcements. They all had the settledconviction that their employer was a rogue, but he paid them in noniggardly fashion, and they would not suffer anyone to attack him.
This incursion from the external world had a restorative effect onVerity. Being what is termed a self-made man, he had a fine sense ofhis own importance, and his subordinates' lack of respect forthwithovercame every other consideration.
"Get out!" he growled, waving a hand toward the door.
"But, sir--please, gentlemen----" stuttered the senior clerk.
"Get out, I tell you! D--n yer eyes, 'oo sent for any of you?"
Undoubtedly David was recovering. The discomfited clerks retired.Even Dickey Bulmer was quieted a little. But he still shook thenewspaper under David's nose.
"Now!" he cried. "Let's have it. No more of your flamin' made-uptales. Wot took you to shove the _Andromeda_ into a rat-trap of thissort?"
David staggered away from the table. He seemed to be laboring forbreath.
"'Arf a mo'. No need to yowl at me like that," he protested.
He fumbled with the lock of a corner cupboard, opened it, and drewforth a decanter and some glasses. A tumbler crashed to the floor, andthe slight accident was another factor in clearing his wits. He sworevolubly.
"Same thing 'appened that Sunday afternoon," he said, apparentlyobvious of the other men's presence. "My poor lass upset one, she did.Wish she'd ha' flung it at my 'ed. . . . Did it say 'went down withall 'ands,' mister?" he demanded suddenly of the reporter.
"Yes, Mr. Verity."
"Is it true?"
"I trust not, but Lloyd's agent--well, I needn't tell you that Lloyd'sis reliable. Was your niece on board? Is she the lady mentioned inthe cablegram?"
Then Bulmer woke up to the fact that there was a stranger present.
"'Ello!" he cried angrily. "Wot are you doin' ere? 'Oo are you? Beoff, instantly."
"I am not going until Mr. Verity hears what I have to ask him, andanswers, or not, as he feels disposed," was the firm reply.
"Leave 'im alone, Dickey. It's all right. Wot does it matter now 'ooknows all there is to know? Just gimme a minnit."
Verity poured out some brandy. Man is but a creature of habit, and thehospitable Lancastrian does not drink alone when there is company.
"'Ave a tiddly?" he inquired blandly.
Both Bulmer and the journalist believed that David was losing hisfaculties. Never did shipowner behave more queerly when faced by adisaster of like magnitude, involving, as did the _Andromeda's_ loss,not only political issues of prime importance, but also the death of anear relative. They refused the proffered refreshment, not withoutsome show of indignation. Verity swallowed a large dose of neatspirit. He thought it would revive him, so, of course, the effect wasinstantaneous. The same quantity of prussic acid could not have killedhim more rapidly than the brandy rallied his scattered forces, and, notbeing a physiologist, he gave the brandy all the credit.
"Ah!" he said, smacking his lips with some of the old-time relish,"that puts new life into one. An' now, let's get on with the knittin'.I was a bit rattled when this young party steers in an' whacks 'iscock-an'-bull yarn into me 'and. 'Oo ever 'eard of a respectableBritish ship mixin' 'erself up with a South American revolution? Thestory is all moonshine on the face of it."
"I think otherwise, Mr. Verity, and Mr. Bulmer, I take it, agrees withme," said the reporter.
"Wot," blazed David, into whose mind had darted a notion that dazzledhim by its daring, "d'ye mean to insiniwate that I lent my ship to this'ere Dom Wot's-'is-name? D'ye sit there an' tell me that Jimmie Coke,a skipper who's bin in my employ for sixteen year, would carry on thatsort of fool's business behind 'is owner's back? Go into my clerk'soffice, young man, an' ax Andrews to show up a copy of the ship'smanifest. See w'en an 'ow she was insured. Jot down the names of thefreighters for this run, and skip round to their offices to verify.An' if that don't fill the bill, well, just interview yourself, an' sayif you'd allow your niece, a bonnie lass like my Iris, to take a tripthat might end in 'er bein' blown to bits. It's crool, that's wot itis, reel crool."
David was not simulating this contemptuous wrath. He actually felt it.His harsh voice cracked when he spoke of Iris, and the excited wordsgushed out in a torrent.
The reporter glanced at Bulmer, who was watching Verity with a tenseexpectancy that was not to be easily accounted for, since his mannerand speech on entering the room had been so distinctly hostile.
"The lady referred to was Miss Iris Yorke, then?"
"'Oo else? I've on'y one niece. My trouble is that she went withoutmy permission, in a way of speakin'. 'Ere, you'd better 'ave the fax.She was engaged to my friend, Mr. Bulmer, but, bein' a slip of a girl,an' fond o' romancin', she just put herself aboard the Andromeedawithout sayin' 'with your leave' or 'by your leave.' She wrote me aletter, w'ich sort of explains the affair. D'you want to see it?"
"If I may."
"No," said Bulmer.
"Yes," blustered Verity, fully alive now to the immense possibilitiesunderlying the appearance in print of Iris's references to herforthcoming marriage.
"An' I say 'no,' an' mean it," said the older man. "Go slow, David, goslow. I was not comin 'ere as your enemy when I found this paper bein'cried in the streets. It med me mad for a while. But I believe wotyou've said, an' I'm not the man to want my business, or my futurewife's I 'ope, to be chewed over by every Dick, Tom, an' 'Arry inLiverpool."
The reincarnation of David was a wonderful spectacle, the mostimpressive incident the journalist had ever witnessed, did he but knowits genesis. The metamorphosis was physical as well as mental. Verityburgeoned before his very eyes.
"Of course, that makes a h-- a tremenjous difference," said theshipowner. "You 'ave my word for it, an' that is enough for most men.Mr. Andrews 'll give you all the information you want. I'll cable nowto Rio an' Pernambewco, an' see if I can get any straight news from theshippin' 'ouses there. I'll let you know if I 'ear anything, an' youmight do the same by me."
The reporter gave this promise readily. He scented a possible scandal,and meant to keep in touch with Verity. Meanwhile, he was in need ofthe facts which the managing clerk could supply, so he took himself off.
Bulmer went to the window and looked out. A drizzle of sleet wasfalling from a gray sky. The atmosphere was heavy. It was a daysingularly appropriate to the evil tidings that had shocked him into afury against the man who had so willfully deceived him. David pickedup the proof slips and reread them. He compared them with theparagraphs in the newspaper brought by Bulmer, and thrown by him on thetable after his first outburst of helpless wrath. They were identicalin wording, of course, but, somehow, their meaning was clearer in theprinted page: and David, despite his uncouth diction, was a clever man.
He wrinkled his forehead now in analysis of each line. Soon he hit onsomething that puzzled him.
"Dickey," he said.
There was no answer. The old man peering through the window seemed tohave bent and whitened even since he came into the room.
"Look 'ere, Dickey," went on David, "this dashed fairy-tale won't holdwater. _You_ know Coke. Is 'e the kind o' man to go bumpin' roundlike a stage 'ero, an' hoisting Union Jacks as the ship sinks? I axyou, is 'e? It's nonsense, stuff an' nonsense. An', if the Andromeedawas scrapped at Fernando Noronha, 'oo were the freebooters thatcollared the island, an' 'ow did this 'ere De Sylva get to Maceio? Areyou listenin'?"
"Yes," said Bulmer, turning at last, and devouring Verity with hisdeep-set eyes.
"Well, wot d'ye think of it?"
"Did you send the ship to Fernando Noronha?"
It is needless to place on record the formula of David's denial. Itwas forcible, and served its purpose--that should suffice.
"Under ordin
ary conditions she would 'ave passed the island about the31st?" continued Bulmer.
"Yes. Confound it, 'aven't I bin cablin' there every two days for afortnight or more? B'lieve me or not, Dickey, it cut me to the 'eartto keep you in the dark about Iris. But I begun it, like an ijjit, an'kep' on with it."
"To sweeten me on account of the new ships, I s'pose?"
"Yes, that's it. No more lyin' for me. I'm sick of it."
"For the same reason you wanted that letter published?"
"Well--yes. There! You see I'm talkin' straight."
"So am I. If--if Iris is alive, the partnership goes on. If--she'sdead, it doesn't."
"D'ye mean it?"
"I always mean wot I say."
The click of an indicator on the desk showed that Verity's privatetelephone had been switched on from the general office. By sheer forceof routine, David picked up a receiver and placed it to his ear. Thesub-editor of the newspaper whose representative had not been gone fiveminutes asked if he was speaking to Mr. Verity.
"Yes," said David, "wot's up now?" and he motioned to Bulmer to use asecond receiver.
"A cablegram from Pernambuco states specifically that the captain andcrew of the _Andromeda_ fought their way across the island of FernandoNoronha, rescued Dom De Sylva, seized a steam launch, attacked andcaptured the German steamship _Unser Fritz_, and landed the insurgentleader at Maceio. The message goes on to say that the captain's nameis Coke, and that he is accompanied by his daughter. . . . Eh? Whatdid you say? . . . Are you there?"
"Yes, I'm 'ere, or I think I am," said David with a desperate calmness."Is that all?"
"All for the present."
"It doesn't say that Coke is a ravin', tearin', 'owlin' lunatic, doesit?"
"No. Is that your view?"
Bulmer's hand gripped David's wrist. Their eyes met.
"I was thinkin' that the chap who writes these penny novelette wiresmight 'ave rounded up his yarn in good shape," said Verity aloud.
"But there is not the slightest doubt that something of the kind hasoccurred," said the voice.
"It's a put-up job!" roared David. "Them bloomin' Portygees 'ave sunkmy ship, an' they're whackin' in their flam now so as to score firstblow. A year-old baby 'ud see that if 'is father was a lawyer."
The sub-editor laughed.
"Well, I'll ring you up again when the next message comes through," hesaid.
But to Bulmer, David said savagely:
"Wot's bitten Coke? 'E must 'ave gone stark, starin' mad."
"Iris is alive!" murmured Bulmer.
"Nice mess she med of things w'en she slung 'er 'ook from Linden'Ouse," grunted her uncle.
"I don't blame 'er. She meant no 'arm. She's on'y a bit of a lass,w'en all is said an' done. Mebbe it's my fault, or yours, or the faultof both of us. An' now, David, I'll tell you wot I 'ad in me mind incomin' 'ere this morning. You're hard up. You don't know where toturn for a penny. If you're agreeable, I'll put a trustworthy man inthis office an' give 'im full powers to pull your affairs straight.Mind you, I'm doin' this for Iris, not for you. An' now that we knowwot's 'appening in South America, you an' I will go out there and lookinto things. A mail steamer will take us there in sixteen days, an'before we sail we can work the cables a bit so as to stop Iris fromstartin' for 'ome before we arrive. The trip will do us good, an'we'll be away from the gossip of Bootle. Are you game? Well, gimmeyour 'and on it."
"Well, gimme your 'and on it"]