"I never saw such a slight one in all my days!" It is rarely that any one sees reason to bless his own moustache, but on this particular occasion, when he perceived the welcome controversy to which it was giving rise, Georgie was very near calling down benedictions on his youthful hairs.

With great presence of mind he recovered his good-humour, and diverted the talk further and further into its capillary course.

He backed his moustache against Duffield's and Raggles' spliced together, he upbraided them with envy, and called Webster to witness that the pimple on Raggles' lip, which he claimed as the forerunner of his crop, had been there for the last six months with never a sign of harvest.
Altogether, under shelter of his moustache, Georgie crept out of a very awkward hobble, and finally out of Webster's shop, greatly to the relief of his palpitating heart.
But his trials were not quite over.

As he was running headlong round the corner of High Street, determined that no pretext should detain him a moment longer than necessary in this perilous territory, he found himself, to his horror, suddenly confronted with the form of the very British seaman whom, of all others, he hoped to avoid; and, before he could slacken speed or fetch a compass, he had plunged full into Tom White's arms.
Tom White, as usual, I am sorry to say, was half-seas-over.

Never steady in his best days, he had, ever since the loss of the _Martha_ made his headquarters at the bar of the "Dolphin." Not that the loss of the _Martha_ was exactly ruin to her late owner.