XVII. – The Agony of Waiting
He had paced the parlor of the Fisherman's Rest like a ruined wretch, waiting for the tide to change – until his chief ordered him to sit down, for God's sake, and drink a mug of Jellyband's best to calm yourself, man.
He had stormed the decks of the Daydream like a madman, while waiting for the noble vessel to arrive in France – until his chief ordered him to get below deck, dem it all, and stop torturing my poor sailors, before they lash you to the wheel!
He had prowled the wretched hovel they were using as a base of operations like a wounded animal, while waiting for the others to finish scouting the situation – until his chief ordered him to lie down and get some sleep, before I knock you out cold…which is a highly tempting prospect, Tony, after the way you've been behaving the past four-and-twenty hours.
It was only when he was in that narrow, filthy alleyway, waiting for the final brawl to erupt within the horrible tavern his wife was currently imprisoned in, that the agony of waiting caught up with him, and he found he could no longer pace or storm or prowl.
Instead, he could now only stand perfectly still, white as a ghost, his lips trembling from cold and his fingers numb with dread, and continue to wait.
Wait for his chief to save the day – as I always do, you scurvy rascal!