"'Tis in the East Ward close by. Darby can show you."
He shouted renewed thanks and stumped off agilely on his crutch, Darby strutting beside him with a comical pride.
Aboard the Anne I found all in confusion. Captain Farraday, as I had expected, had not returned since he landed the preceding afternoon and undoubtedly was sleeping off an accumulation of divers liquors in the George Tavern. The mate had gone ashore that morning to search for him, and would probably take advantage of the opportunity to emulate his skipper's example. Master Jenkins, who had missed drowning at the red hands of the redoubtable Rip-Rap and Flint, was in charge of the ship. He was a melancholy, sour-visaged East-countryman, who moved with a deliberation as pronounced as Peter Corlaer's, and inspecting the manifests with him was a tedious business. I accepted an invitation to share his midday meal, and the afternoon was gone when we concluded our work, agreed upon the time of arrival of the lighters on the morrow and returned to the deck.
My wherry had been dismissed long ago, and he bade the bosun muster a crew to row me ashore. Standing by the gangway, I commented idly upon the two ships which had come in since morning.
"The brig had a close go of it with your friend Rip-Rap," I remarked.
"Aye," returned Jenkins glumly. "'Tis passing queer a Barbadan should be fetching sugar and rum to New York. They leave that mostly to the Yankees."
"True," I admitted; "yet there's an exception to every rule."
A silvery whistle-blast sounded on the deck of the Spanish frigate up-stream.
"Too bad that's not one of ours now," I commented. "Rip-Rap should have a dose of his own medicine."
Master Jenkins expressed utter disapprobation without a wrinkle on his features.