But Captain Cable was not a man to waste words over the social conventions. He was obviously well--as well as a hard, seafaring life will make a man who lives simply and works hard. He was a short man, with a red face washed very clean, and very well shaven, except for a little piece of beard left fantastically at the base of his chin. His 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.” He held them out and they were not, so he must have spoken metaphorically. The banker translated, addressing himself to one of his companions, rather markedly and with much deference. “You're speakin' French,” interrupted Captain Cable. “Yes, my fren', I am. Do you know French?” “Not me,” returned Captain Cable, affably. “They're all one to me. They're all damn nonsense.” He was, it seemed, that which is called in these days of blatant patriotism a thorough Englishman, or a true Blue, according to the social station of the speaker. The gentleman to whom the translation had been addressed smiled. He was a tall and rather distinguished-looking man, with bushy white hair and mustache. His features were square-cut and strong. His eyes were dark, and he had an easy smile. He led the way to some chairs which had been placed near a table at the far end of the lawn beneath a cedar-tree, and his manner had something faintly regal in it, as if in his daily life he had always been looked up to and obeyed without question. “Tell him that we also are plain men with clean hands,” he said. And the banker replied: