The man bent forward, displaying a huge, rounded face, very kindly about the eyes, and set atop of the oddest body in the world: for under a trunk extraordinary broad and strong, straddled a pair of legs that a baby would have disown’d—so thin and stunted were they, and (to make it the queerer) ended in feet the most prodigious you ever saw.
As I said, this man lean’d forward, and shouted into my ear so that I fairly leap’d in the air—
“My name’s Pottery—Bill Pottery, cap’n o’ the Godsend—an’ you can’t make me hear, not if you bust yoursel’!”
You may think this put me in a fine quandary.
“I be deaf as nails!” bawl’d he.
’Twas horrible: for the troopers (I thought) if anywhere near, could not miss hearing him. His voice shook the very rigging.
“... An’ o’ my crew the half ashore gettin’ drunk, an’ the half below in a very accomplished state o’ liquor: so there’s no chance for ’ee to speak!”
He paus’d a moment, then roared again—
“What a pity! ’Cos you make me very curious—that you do!”
Luckily, at this moment, Delia had the sense to put a finger to her lip. The man wheel’d round without another word, led us aft over the blocks, cordage, and all manner of loose gear that encumber’d the deck, to a ladder that, toward the stern, led down into darkness. Here he sign’d to us to follow; and, descending first, threw open a door, letting out a faint stream of light in our faces. ’Twas the captain’s cabin, lin’d with cupboards and lockers: and the light came from an oil lamp hanging over a narrow deal table. By this light Captain Billy scrutiniz’d us for an instant: then, from one of his lockers, brought out pen, paper, and ink, and set them on the table before me.