eyes were blue and bright, like gimlets. He may have had a soft heart,
but it was certainly hidden beneath a hard exterior. He wore a thick
coat of blue pilot-cloth, not because the July day was cold, but because
it was his best coat. His hat was carefully brushed and of hard, black
felt. It had perhaps been the height of fashion in Sunderland five years
earlier. He wore no gloves--Captain Cable drew the line there. As for
the rest, he had put on that which he called his shore-going rig.

"And yourself?" he answered, mechanically.

"I am very well, thank you," replied the polite banker, who, it will
have been perceived, was nameless to Captain Cable, as he is to the
reader. The truth being that his name was so absurdly and egregiously
Russian that the plain English tongue never embarked on that sea of
consonants. "It is an affair, as usual. My friends are here to meet you,
but I think they do not speak English, except your colleague, the other
captain, who speaks a little--a very little."

As he spoke he led the way to the garden, where three gentlemen were
awaiting them.

"This is Captain Cable," he said, and the three gentlemen raised their
hats, much to the captain's discomfiture. He did not hold by foreign
ways; but he dragged his hat off and then expectorated on the lawn,
just to show that he felt quite at home. He even took the lead in the
conversation.

"Tell 'em," he said, "that I'm a plain man from Sun'land that has a
speciality, an' that's transshipping cargo at sea, but me hands are
clean."