I hardly cared to remind him of the galley when we met; but
Charlie alluded to it on every occasion, always as a story from which money
was to be made.
"I think I deserve twenty-five per cent., don't I, at least," be said, with
beautiful frankness. "I supplied all the ideas, didn't I?"
This greediness for silver was a new side in his nature. I assumed that it had
been developed in the City, where Charlie was picking up the curious nasal
drawl of the underbred City man.
"When the thing's done we'll talk about it. I can't make anything of it at
present. Red-haired or black-haired hero are equally difficult."
He was sitting by the fire staring at the red coals. "I can't understand what
you find so difficult. It's all as clean as mud to me," he replied. A jet of
gas puffed out between the bars, took light and whistled softly. "Suppose we
take the red-haired hero's adventures first, from the time that he came south
to my galley and captured it and sailed to the Beaches."
I knew better now than to interrupt Charlie. I was out of reach of pen and
paper, and dared not move to get them lest I should break the current. The
gas-jet puffed and whinnied, Charlie's voice dropped almost to a whisper, and
he told a tale of the sailing of an open galley to Furdurstrandi, of sunsets
on the open sea, seen under the curve of the one sail evening after evening
when the galley's beak was notched into the centre of the sinking disc, and
"we sailed by that for we had no other guide," quoth Charlie.
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