PROCEEDINGS OF THE CONSUL
THE order was instantly obeyed, and the sailors ranged themselves,
facing the consul.
They were a wild company; men of many climes - not at all precise in
their toilet arrangements, but picturesque in their very tatters. My
friend, the Long Doctor, was there too; and with a view, perhaps, of
enlisting the sympathies of the consul for a gentleman in distress,
had taken more than ordinary pains with his appearance. But among the
sailors, he looked like a land-crane blown off to sea, and consorting
with petrels.
The forlorn Rope Yarn, however, was by far the most remarkable figure.
Land-lubber that he was, his outfit of sea-clothing had long since
been confiscated; and he was now fain to go about in whatever he
could pick up. His upper garment - an unsailor-like article of dress
which he persisted in wearing, though torn from his back twenty times
in the day - was an old "claw-hammer jacket," or swallow-tail coat,
formerly belonging to Captain Guy, and which had formed one of his
perquisites when steward.
By the side of Wilson was the mate, bareheaded, his gray locks lying
in rings upon his bronzed brow, and his keen eye scanning the crowd
as if he knew their every thought. His frock hung loosely, exposing
his round throat, mossy chest, and short and nervous arm embossed
with pugilistic bruises, and quaint with many a device in India ink.
In the midst of a portentous silence, the consul unrolled his papers,
evidently intending to produce an effect by the exceeding bigness of
his looks.
