“He’s a drunkard,” I said, flushing. “He isn’t to be trusted, in my opinion.”
“Why?” said Joshua. “Isn’t it his own boat?”
“O yes!” I answered; for it was, indeed—the single sound piece of goods which Rampick had saved and clung to out of the wreck of his past.
“Isn’t it big enough?” insisted the visitor.
“Quite big enough.”
“Why,” said Joshua, “a seaman never loses his legs but ashore. And we are three to one, gentlemen. I’m small; but I’ll back myself for a rat to grip. If it’s me you’re thinking of——”
Harry hung his head. I was ashamed to say more. It did seem ridiculous that three vigorous bodies should be timorous of this one crazy oaf. The half-truth made us out cravens, and the whole was impossible. Nevertheless, the prospect of such a boatman for the trip quite took off the edge of its pleasure. We followed Joshua hangdog, as he strode down the Gap and across the beach.
“You’ve whetted my curiosity,” he said over his shoulder. “A drunken smuggler should be good company.”
I scowled at Harry, dropping behind.
“Well, why didn’t you take upon yourself to answer him?” he muttered viciously. “We’re in for a nice thing, it seems, knowing what we know. It’ll be pleasant to have to hob-nob with the fellow, and a warrant for his hanging like in our pockets!”