Late for My Own Capture

Friday. A crew ran in tonight at the very minute they were due below deck, breathless, apologising, one of them still holding a sandwich.

I explained, at length, that a prisoner should present himself a quarter of an hour early. There are lockers to fill and a briefing to hear, and I like to look over my prisoners before I lock them up, the way a cook looks over potatoes. Then one hour below deck, then a little while for photographs and gloating. Ninety minutes, gangplank to gangplank, all told.

They said they had been held up on the way. I said, held up by whom? A rival pirate? They said a tram.

In the end they got out anyway, still slightly out of breath, and the sandwich survived the whole voyage. I have never been so insulted by a sandwich.

Scarface stood by the door with a pocket watch tonight, telling every crew they had plenty of time. Plenty of time to what, Scarface? He said, to enjoy themselves. I have asked him to stop saying that.