"Sydney Green," replied Dene, with a promptitude acquired by his recent
experience.
"Right!" said the manager. "Have a drink?"
He poured out a liberal quantity of champagne for Dene, and, filling his
own glass, raised it, eyeing Dene keenly over the edge of it.
"Here's to us! I rather like the look of you; but just listen to me,
young fellow. I don't care who and what a man is when he joins my
company, he's under my orders. See? And look here, I don't ask any
questions; I take a man for what he says he is. You say your name's
Green. Dark Green, I expect, eh? Well, it's no business of mine. You
know where we're bound for, I suppose? Well, we're bound for South
America. We're going to do it thoroughly; if ever we get there, which
seems doubtful, for this infernal old tramp is more rotten than I
thought. But she's cheap, anyhow; and economy is my motto. Thirty
shillings a week." He wrote down Dene's new name and the amount of his
wages. Then, suddenly, his manner changed; with an impatient gesture he
waved his beringed hand, and Dene felt himself swept outside.
He stood in the gangway and looked straight before him for a minute or
two. His brain was whirling somewhat, but he realized that he had
escaped. His hand went to his breast pocket, where reposed the
five-pound note his guardian angel had given him. It was still intact.
He felt that it was proving itself a talisman. God bless her!