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| “Why not?” declares Jack, although anyone with half a brain could see that there are a multitude of potential (and perfectly valid) answers to that question. “A drink it is.” He pulls up a stool. “Drink” is apparently a synonym for “rum” as far as this fellow’s concerned. Jack doesn’t object. “Cheers,” he says, and, “Jack Shaftoe’s my name.” “Jack Sparrow,” says Jack Sparrow. “Captain, that is. P’rhaps you’ve heard of me?” “Nope.” “Oh well. P’rhaps you don’t get about much.” Jack snorts, and then jumps as Jack Sparrow lets out a yell. “I know where I’ve seen you! ‘Twas at the theatre, Thursday last. Oh, yes.” Jack frowns, and considers his companion anew. He was indeed at the theatre last Thursday, as it happens; and not in the pit, neither. It’d been a fine day for Financial Acquisitions, Thursday. Jack, and a companion, had a box to themselves. He doesn’t like to think that he might’ve been being observed; ‘cos his companion wasn’t there for her skills conversational. In fact, for much of the time she was... er... “There was a girl with you,” says Sparrow, with an evil smile. “And she was lavishing most admiring attentions upon your person.” “Jesus,” says Jack, and he can feel himself colouring, though he can’t suppress laughter. “Could you see that?” “Oh, I could indeed.” Jack Sparrow ferrets around in a pocket, and pulls out a brass spyglass. “Best bit of theatre-going, the audience is.” “You’re a bloody peeping Tom!” Shameless, Sparrow shrugs. “Some things, my friend, are worth peeping at.” And he flicks a speaking glance down at Jack’s trowsers. Is Jack mortified? Or secretly pleased? |
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