Sean Continues to Annoy
A short post this morning, as I am busy with accounts all day today. I should mention that Sean is in a temper with me because I found it necessary to ask his odious group of flatterers to leave my home last night, and, as I had been in my drinks for some time—not through intemperance mind you, but as a last resort to try and get to sleep with all the racket going on downstairs—I was not perhaps quite so diplomatic as I would have liked. Though honestly, if a man takes such offense at being called, in jest, a malodorous bootlicker, then he is not fit to be called a man. Now that I think on it, I may have expressed that opinion as well, which was perhaps a trifle impolitic in the circumstances.
Thus Sean is sulking and silent, and Patrick being at an all-day symposium on leeches at the Royal Society I have some leisure to attend to my own affairs for once, beginning with this ship we have chartered for our venture out East. I am less troubled by the ship itself than I am by its captain, a Spanish gentleman named Gustavo Araoz, who is one of those fellows that insists on clasping one's hand with far too much force when he is introduced, which, coupled with the grave shortcoming I have already mentioned—that he is a Spaniard—leaves me with no small misgivings about him.
I am just now remembering that there was quite a bit of talk about a duel last night. I hope very much that it did not involve me.