“I’d bet a gill of old Jamaica,” said the Captain, eyeing him attentively, “that I know what you’re a smiling at.”
Mr. Carker took his cue, and smiled the more.
“It goes no farther?” said the Captain, making a poke at the door with the knobby stick to assure himself that it was shut.
“Not an inch,” said Mr. Carker.
“You’re thinking of a capital F perhaps?” said the Captain.
Mr. Carker didn’t deny it.
“Anything about a L,” said the Captain, “or a O?”
Mr. Carker still smiled.
“Am I right, again?” inquired the Captain in a whisper, with the scarlet circle on his forehead swelling in his triumphant joy.
Mr. Carker, in reply, still smiling, and now nodding assent, Captain Cuttle rose and squeezed him by the hand, assuring him, warmly, that they were on the same tack, and that as for him (Cuttle) he had laid his course that way all along. “He know’d her first,” said the Captain, with all the secrecy and gravity that the subject demanded, “in an uncommon manner—you remember his finding her in the street when she was a’most a babby—he has liked her ever since, and she him, as much as two youngsters can. We’ve always said, Sol Gills and me, that they was cut out for each other.”
A cat, or a monkey, or a hyena, or a death’s-head, could not have shown the Captain more teeth at one time, than Mr. Carker showed him at this period of their interview.
“There’s a general indraught that way,” observed the happy Captain. “Wind and water sets in that direction, you see. Look at his being present t’other day!”
“Most favourable to his hopes,” said Mr. Carker.
“Look at his being towed along in the wake of that day!” pursued the Captain. “Why what can cut him adrift now?”
“Nothing,” replied Mr. Carker.
“You’re right again,” returned the Captain, giving his hand another squeeze. “Nothing it is. So! steady! There’s a son gone: pretty little creetur. Ain’t there?”
“Yes, there’s a son gone,” said the acquiescent Carker.
“Pass the word, and there’s another ready for you,” quoth the Captain. “Nevy of a scientific Uncle! Nevy of Sol Gills! Wal’r! Wal’r, as is already in your business! And”—said the Captain, rising gradually to a quotation he was preparing for a final burst, “who—comes from Sol Gills’s daily, to your business, and your buzzums.”
The Captain’s complacency as he gently jogged Mr. Carker with his elbow, on concluding each of the foregoing short sentences, could be surpassed by nothing but the exultation with which he fell back and eyed him when he had finished this brilliant display of eloquence and sagacity; his great blue waistcoat heaving with the throes of such a masterpiece, and his nose in a state of violent inflammation from the same cause.
“Am I right?” said the Captain.
“Captain Cuttle,” said Mr. Carker, bending down at the knees, for a moment, in an odd manner, as if he were falling together to hug the whole of himself at once, “your views in reference to Walter Gay are thoroughly and accurately right. I understand that we speak together in confidence.”
“Honour!” interposed the Captain. “Not a word.”
“To him or anyone?” pursued the Manager.
Captain Cuttle frowned and shook his head.
“But merely for your own satisfaction and guidance—and guidance, of course,” repeated Mr. Carker, “with a view to your future proceedings.”
“Thank’ee kindly, I am sure,” said the Captain, listening with great attention.
“I have no hesitation in saying, that’s the fact. You have hit the probabilities exactly.”
“And with regard to your head Governor,” said the Captain, “why an interview had better come about nat’ral between us. There’s time enough.”
Mr. Carker, with his mouth from ear to ear, repeated, “Time enough.” Not articulating the words, but bowing his head affably, and forming them with his tongue and lips.
“And as I know—it’s what I always said—that Wal’r’s in a way to make his fortune,” said the Captain.
“To make his fortune,” Mr. Carker repeated, in the same dumb manner.
“And as Wal’r’s going on this little voyage is, as I may say, in his day’s work, and a part of his general expectations here,” said the Captain.
“Of his general expectations here,” assented Mr. Carker, dumbly as before.
“Why, so long as I know that,” pursued the Captain, “there’s no hurry, and my mind’s at ease.”
Mr. Carker still blandly assenting in the same voiceless manner, Captain Cuttle was strongly confirmed in his opinion that he was one of the most agreeable men he had ever met, and that even Mr. Dombey might improve himself on such a model. With great heartiness, therefore, the Captain once again extended his enormous hand (not unlike an old block in colour), and gave him a grip that left upon his smoother flesh a proof impression of the chinks and crevices with which the Captain’s palm was liberally tattooed.
“Farewell!” said the Captain. “I ain’t a man of many words, but I take it very kind of you to be so friendly, and aboveboard. You’ll excuse me if I’ve been at all intruding, will you?” said the Captain.
“Not at all,” returned the other.
“Thank’ee. My berth ain’t very roomy,” said the Captain, turning back again, “but it’s tolerably snug; and if you was to find yourself near Brig Place, number nine, at any time—will you make a note of it?—and would come upstairs, without minding what was said by the person at the door, I should be proud to see you.”
With that hospitable invitation, the Captain said “Good day!” and walked out and shut the door; leaving Mr. Carker still reclining against the chimneypiece. In whose sly look and watchful manner; in whose false mouth, stretched but not laughing; in whose spotless cravat and very whiskers; even in whose silent passing of his soft hand over his white linen and his smooth face; there was something desperately catlike.
The unconscious Captain walked out in a state
