Free Devil to Pay by Parkinson C. Northcote Page A

acquaintance looked at him more keenly. What he saw left him still curious. Of average height, dark-haired, with dark blue eyes and a rather melancholy expression, the young man was something, he guessed, between thirty and thirty-five years old. He was rather thin and rather shabbily dressed, his overcoat made of inferior cloth, his shoes well polished but badly worn, his cravat frayed and yellow in the hem. The older man, coming to a decision on impulse, decided to introduce himself.
    â€œMy name is Grindall, sir, wine merchant of Southampton. My nephew is to meet me presently for dinner at the Star and Garter. Would you do me the honour of joining us?” It seemed for a moment that the invitation was regarded as an insult and Mr Grindall went on quickly to forestall a touchy refusal.
    â€œI’ll be frank with you, sir, and explain what I have in mind. My nephew has been offered a berth in a revenue cutter and the problem is whether he should accept it. The offer came through me—for the Collector of Customs at Southampton is an old friend of mine, known to me since boyhood. His kind offer is a very handsome one, very handsome indeed, but my fear is that Henry should miss the better opportunity of serving overseas. Your advice, if you will give it, may be of the greatest value and will leave me greatly in your debt. Come, sir, I’ll take no denial!” Whether seriously meant or not, this plea for guidance had the desired effect. The naval officer’s scruples over accepting charity were overcome by Mr Grindall’s tact.
    â€œIn that event, sir,” he replied, “I can only say that I am very much at your disposal and will accept your kind invitation with the greatest pleasure. My name is Delancey and my last service was in the cutter
Royalist.”
Mr Grindall soon ascertained, by indirect means, that his first guess had been correct. Delancey was an unemployed half-pay lieutenant with neither interest nor private means; left ashore for reasons which he did not choose to explain. He could only guess at the rest of the story; but it had been a cold winter for a man who might be hungry. Mr Grindall found other topics for conversation; the sad illness and death of the
Thalia’s
previous captain and the scandal over naval contracts at Plymouth. Did Delancey think that any good would come of the recent changes at the Admiralty? They chatted easily enough until the Inn was reached. Then they were able to thaw in front of the tap-room fire. With his overcoat removed, Delancey looked shabbier than ever, with threadbare elbows and cuffs. He warmed to his host’s kindness, however, and was glad to be indoors. It would snow, he predicted, before nightfall. There were four or five other gentlemen in the room and they all agreed that the weather was exceptionally bad for the time of year. It was February 13th, 1795, and the winter, they all felt, had gone on long enough. Mr Grindall ordered dinner for three and took some time over the wine-list. He had scarcely chosen the claret before he saw his nephew in the street and went to meet him. After a few minutes he returned, ushering Henry before him, and called out, “Here he is at last! Mr Delancey, allow me to introduce my nephew, Mr Midshipman Fowler. Henry, I want you to meet Mr Delancey, lieutenant until recently of the
Royalist!”
He looked, beaming, from one to the other.
    There was a moment of tense silence, the conversation dying away. It was almost as if two mortal enemies were suddenly face to face. Then Delancey saved the situation by saying quietly: “There is no need for any introduction in this case, Mr Grindall. Mr Fowler and I are old shipmates. We served together in the
Artemis.”
    â€œHow are you, sir?” asked Fowler and his uncle was quick to comment on the strange turn of events which had brought the two of them together again.
    â€œIf I had not chanced to fall into conversation with you, Mr Delancey,